


Minute by Minute

by ebjameston



Series: Soulminutes AU [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Kent "Fight Me" Parson, M/M, Mentions of Consensual Underage Sex, Minor Kent Parson/Jack Zimmermann, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Real Hockey Players Mentioned in Passing, Soulmates, parse-positive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-09-14 17:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16917588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebjameston/pseuds/ebjameston
Summary: “My soulmate is Russian,” Kent says quietly, then repeats it a tiny bit louder. “He’s Russian. And he’s going to be in the NHL.”Katie is glowing. “You’re going to be able to find him.”“I’m going to be able to find him,” Kent echoes.+++“Of course,” she giggles, wiping tears from her eyes. “Of course your soulmate is a scrappy, sarcastic little asshole who gets in fights standing up for the underdog.”Alexei frowns. “He could’ve gotten hurt. He won’t be able to play hockey if he gets hurt.”That, for some reason, only makes Sabina laugh harder.+++[A soulmate AU in which once a year, on your birthday, you see through your soulmate's eyes for exactly sixty seconds. It takes Kent and Alexei a long, long time to find each other.]





	1. i found me a hopeless case, and resolved to love

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself I would never write a soulmate AU, but here we are. 
> 
> This is a Parse-positive fic. If that's not your jam, kindly go find your jam elsewhere. 
> 
> Trigger warning for this chapter, my loves: Kent's dad is the reason for the "Implied/Reference Child Abuse" tag. "Implied/Referenced Homophobia" isn't an accidental tag, either. Nothing terribly graphic, but take care of yourselves.

**[KENT, 11]**

By the end of his eleventh birthday, Kent knows exactly three things about his soulmate: 

 

First, they’re older than Kent. Kent wouldn’t have had a soulminute unless his soulmate was already at least eleven. 

Second, they play hockey, which is amazing. Kent plays hockey, Kent _loves_ hockey. He and his soulmate already have something in common! The practice rink looks like any other practice rink Kent’s ever seen and even the breakaway drill they’re doing seems familiar, although Kent’s never been on defense for this drill before. So, correction: his soulmate plays hockey, and is a _d-man_. 

Third, Kent’s soulmate is a boy. Kent knows the instant he landed in his soulmate’s brain, plus everyone else on the ice is a guy.

Kent carefully, carefully doesn’t mention the third thing in front of his dad, but Katie’s only eight. She lets it slip during dinner, and everything goes downhill from there.

  

**[ALEXEI, 15]**

Alexei doesn’t have a soulminute on his eleventh, twelfth, thirteenth, or fourteenth birthdays. 

He tries not to be bothered by it. So what if his soulmate is a few years younger than him? 60% of soulmates have less than five years’ age difference between them, sure, but it’s extremely rare to have an age difference of more than 15 years. He probably won’t be one of those. His mama is eight years older than his papa, anyway, and they still found one another and built a beautiful life together. Alexei can wait. 

Then a girl at school — Sabina, also still without a single soulminute to her name — starts showing tentative interest in Alexei, and his own feelings send him spiraling into a nervous, guilty wreck the night before he turns 15. 

“Waiting to find your soulmate doesn’t mean you put off your entire life, Alyosha,” his mama chides gently, handing him a cup of tea with more than a splash of vodka swirled in. “I was already a complete person before I connected with your father, and you are a complete person now. Those stories you hear about women who were shells, only half of a whole, unable to be happy or to love? Pah! Nonsense. Plenty of people I know who’ve never managed to find their soulmates live happy, full lives.”  

“Your soulmate will love you,” his papa adds. “She won’t want you to have shut yourself off from everyone else while you were waiting.” 

Alexei’s not sure how he feels about that. He knows that people date, even marry outside their soulmatch, but he’s never quite seen the point. If you know there’s someone out there who’s perfect for you, why bother with anything else? Even if his soulmate winds up being ten years younger than him, even if it takes them five years after that to scrape together enough information from their soulminutes to find one another, it’ll be worth it. It’ll be _more_ than worth it. 

Alexei can wait.

He goes to bed with a strengthened resolve to let Sabina know that he isn’t interested. He wakes up with a smile, determined to make his birthday a good day even if he still doesn’t know a thing about his soulmate by the end of it. The day is as normal as any other day, and Alexei’s trying to hide his disappointment that there’s less than four hours left for a minute as he’s changing after hockey practice when it starts.

He’s heard every story under the sun about soulminutes. Every experience is as different as the soulmatch that generated it, and no one can explain where the minutes come from or why what’s shared is what’s shared, but the loose outline seems to be consistent: If you and your soulmate are both at least eleven years old, for exactly sixty seconds on your birthday, you’ll experience what your soulmate is experiencing. You’ll see through their eyes, you’ll hear what they hear, you’ll feel what they feel. They won’t know you’re there, but you’ll know, and if you pay attention over the years, you can pick up enough to figure out whose soul is the perfect match to yours. Sometimes you realize it’s the kid you’ve been in school with for years; sometimes you only get enough to know that he speaks a different primary language. Sometimes your soulmate is sitting somewhere quietly doing homework or reading, sometimes she’s eating lunch with friends, sometimes he’s in the hospital.

When Alexei was small, he’d daydream that within a couple years of minutes, he’d know enough to travel to a town maybe two hours away. He’d wait outside the school he’d seen through her eyes, or maybe near a store or a car or some other landmark, and she’d see him, and they’d just…know. It happens like that in movies, sometimes. 

As he got older, the daydreams changed. He was still young, but it was already apparent that hockey might take him far, far away from his home town. He began to think that he’d have minutes set in one of the cities he’d travel to for tournaments, for development camps. Maybe she’d even be involved in hockey somehow, maybe he’d be playing a game on his birthday and she’d somehow be there and he’d see himself through her eyes.

(As he got even older, he realized that his soulmate might, maybe, possibly, not be female. He tries not to think about this too much. Life in Russia is very, very hard for same-sex matches.)

These are the things he’s hoped for, the things he’s allowed himself to believe might come to pass, so it’s a complete shock when his first soulminute starts by gazing up through tear-clouded eyes at a tall man with a blotched, angry red face. Alexei, reeling, has just enough time to realize that he’s probably looking at his soulmate’s father before the man rears back and strikes him, hard, across the face. 

It _hurts_. Alexei plays hockey, he’s familiar with getting hit and he knows how to take a hit, but he’s not expecting it. The pain rocks through his soulmate’s cheek and jaw, snapping his head to the side, and the man hisses something foul in a language that definitely isn’t Russian. 

His soulmate says something through a mouthful of blood that Alexei can taste, bright copper and thick against his tongue. Alexei doesn’t speak this language — he’s watched enough TV to think that it’s probably English — but he doesn’t need to understand the words to guess at what his soulmate is saying. 

_Please. Please, don’t, I’m sorry._

A little girl runs into his soulmate's line of vision, placing herself squarely between Alexei’s soulmate and the man. The emotions storming in Alexei’s head — his own confusion and concern, crossed with the fear-anger-hate-guilt-resignation of his soulmate — shift into sheer panic which is quickly replaced by determination. Alexei’s ribs and side and head are pounding, but his soulmate struggles to his feet and tugs the little girl to safety behind him. 

_Not her._

Alexei’s back in his own head by the time the coaches get to the locker room, summoned by his teammates. He knows his face won’t actually bruise, but he presses a palm to his cheek anyway as he briefly explains that his first soulminute wasn’t a pleasant experience. He excuses himself as soon as he can, staggering outside to his mama’s car, and he’s holding back sobs before he can even get the door shut. 

“Alexei!” His mother exclaims. “What is it? What’s happened?” 

“Soulminute,” he manages, hiccuping. “He, he, Mama, _he_ —.” 

“Oh, Alyosha,” she says, her whole face going soft and then fierce. “We will protect you. Your papa and I, we —.” 

“No,” he interrupts miserably. “Yes, that, he’s a he, but he, he. His _father_.” 

It takes until past midnight for Alexei to find the words to explain everything to his parents. His papa grimaces when he finds out that Alexei’s soulmate is a boy, and Alexei, still feeling the emotional bleed, flinches away.  

His papa pulls Alexei into a tight hug. “You don’t ever need to be scared of me, Alyosha,” he says gently. “I am scared for you. Russia will not be kind to you, and your soulmate has already experienced so much unkindness.” 

“He’s not Russian,” Alexei says. “He was — English. They were speaking English?” 

His parents exchange looks. After a long moment, his mama says, “Perhaps you’re lucky, then, to be considering playing hockey professionally. The American league —.” 

“No,” Alexei blurts, fighting down the bile rising at the back of his throat. “I can’t, he wouldn’t, I should stop playing hockey, right? It’s so violent, what if he sees me playing and is scared of me? He’s younger, and I’m already so big, what if he thinks I’ll hit him, too?” 

“Oh, Alyosha,” his mama says. “Once your soulmate knows your heart, he’ll know that you would never lay a hand on him in anger.” 

Alexei goes to bed with a headache. Somewhere out there, he knows, his soulmate is going to bed with a blooming black eye and possibly some bruised ribs. He has awful, fast-paced dreams of shadowy figures and doors that won’t stay closed, but he wakes up and life goes on. That’s the thing about first soulminutes, all the stories say: your entire world has been knocked off its axis, but to everyone else? It’s just another day. 

He doesn’t know enough to find his soulmate and keep him — and his little sister, maybe? — safe, not yet. But Alexei can wait. 

And while he waits, he might as well start trying to learn English. He’s going to need it for hockey eventually, anyway. 

 

**[KENT, 12]**

His soulmate is absolutely _surrounded_ by little kids. 

There’s got to be at least a dozen of them, the oldest no more than ten and the youngest looking like she can walk but probably shouldn’t be allowed near stairs. As Kent settles in to his soulmate’s head, all full of fond-warm-pleased-caution, one of the middle-sized kids clambers up onto a big rock and throws himself in Kent’s soulmate’s direction. 

He catches the kiddo like it’s nothing (and it basically _is_ nothing because holy _crap_  his soulmate is strong), swinging him around like an airplane and setting him back on his feet. His soulmate says something to the jumper in a language that sounds made-up, but Kent manages to pick up on the tone: _Yes, very good jump, but be careful, watch out for the little ones._

It’s a beautiful day, wherever his soulmate is. The sun streams bright through the giant trees, warm on Kent’s face as his soulmate stoops to pick the smallest of the children up and lift her onto his shoulders. Kent’s soulmate is tall, and it's _weird_ to be this tall, but the girl giggles in delight and fists her tiny fingers in his hair.  

Kent kinda wants to stay forever.  

The minute ends, and he looks over at Katie. She’s relentlessly wiggling a loose tooth, but looks up when Danny’s mom starts handing out sparklers and catches the dopey look on Kent’s face. 

“Soulmate?" 

Kent nods. “He seems nice.” 

“Because _that’s_ helpful,” Katie snorts. She gets her sparkler and runs off through the yard, probably looking for the best patch of grass for fireworks-watching, and Kent? 

Kent doesn’t mind that that’s all he got from this soulminute, honestly. 

  

**[ALEXEI, 16]**

Alexei’s soulmate plays hockey. _Alexei’s soulmate plays hockey._  

He’s small — smaller than Alexei was at 12, certainly — but he’s also really, really good. He’s crazy fast and a little reckless, throwing his whole body into the last-minute deke he needs to get around a defender and snap a wrister home, and then Alexei's just reveling in the feel of ice beneath his soulmate’s skates as he heads over to the bench. 

Alexei wasn’t dreading this soulminute, exactly, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. As much as he wants to know more about his soulmate, as much as he wants to start collecting all the little details that will hopefully help them find each other, the emotional bleed from the last soulminute had stayed with him for days and the knowledge that there’s nothing he can do (yet) to help drove him a little crazy. 

But his soulmate plays _hockey_. 

  

**[KENT, 13]**

Kent meets Jack Zimmermann at a summer hockey camp in Toronto, and it’s like God wanted to give Kent a really, really great birthday present to make up for Kent’s dad being so shitty or something. Jack is tall and a playmaker and already strong for their age, he’s got ridiculously soft hands, and when Kent goes to say hi after the first scrimmage, Jack interrupts him with, “I know who you are. We need to fix your lift check.” 

Kent is fond of this grumpy, focused, talented asshole right from the get-go, is what he’s trying to say. 

The camp coaches almost always put Jack and Kent on a line together, and it’s the kind of hockey Kent’s been dying to play. With Jack as his center, Kent can fly around the ice like a crazy person and still know that Jack’s going to find him. Jack doesn’t just keep up, it’s like he knows what Kent’s going to do before even Kent does. And sure, Kent knows that he’s Jack _Zimmermann_ , and freaking _Bad Bob Zimmermann_ comes to watch their last game, but Jack could be Jack Smith and people would still be talking about him the way they’re talking about Crosby. Jack’s going to do this all on his own. 

And maybe Kent’s going to do it right next to him. 

“You played well, son,” Bad Bob says when their final game ends (a win, of course). He wraps Jack in a hug and looks over Jack’s head at Kent, who’s lingering awkwardly near the glass where Jack left him after dragging him over.  “This is the Parson kid you’ve been talking about?” 

Kent is really glad they just got done playing hockey. His blush would probably be really embarrassing if he couldn’t blame it on exertion. 

Jack shoves his dad away playfully. “Like I’m the only one talking about him. You know his stats better than I do.” 

Kent can feel his blush in his _toes_. He’s probably burning a hole in his skates. 

“Just keeping an eye on the competition,” Bad Bob says, and Kent is literally going to explode. “We’ve got a long drive home, Jack, so we should get going, but did you ask him?” 

Now Jack’s the one blushing, and then someone checks Kent hard from the side — only it’s not Kent that got checked, it’s his soulmate. 

His soulmate’s at a rink too, and the game or practice or whatever he’s playing right now is rougher than anything Kent’s played by multiple degrees. Kent’s been assuming that his soulmate is only a couple years older, but based on some of the guys on the ice, it might be more like five or eight. These guys are big and some of them have legit beards. Kent’s side is strained from the hit, but his soulmate just skates through and hustles to the blue line. 

His soulmate’s head is a jumble of emotions and instincts and reflexes. It’s elation when he steals a puck from his mark, it’s wildfire when his d-pair is out of position, it’s field awareness and vigilance and then he’s sprinting, racing, trying to intercept an opponent who’s got the puck and an open line to the net, and — 

Kent’s soulmate lays the sucker out with a body check that’s so beautiful and ruthless and efficient that Kent wants to frame it. His soulmate’s head shifts to satisfaction-pleased-next, and then Kent’s back in his own mind with two Zimmermanns watching him. He blinks. 

Bad Bob laughs. “Today your birthday?”  

“Yeah. Uh, yes,” Kent manages. He can still feel the rush of adrenaline from his soulmate. “Sorry about that.” 

Bad Bob waves a hand. “We’ve all been there. Now, Jack?” 

“You should come play in the Q when we’re old enough,” Jack blurts, almost before his dad has finished talking. “You’re good enough. It’s the best place for you. You can billet with us, my parents already said so.” 

Kent grins. Today is, hands-down, his best birthday ever. 

  

**[ALEXEI, 17]**

His soulminute comes late on Alexei’s seventeenth birthday, so late that he's starting to worry something has happened. You hear those stories from time to time, about how the minutes just… _stop_ , if your soulmate dies. But you also hear that the surviving soulmate knows as soon as the match is severed, and Alexei hasn’t felt anything like that, so he's trying to stay positive but he’s also only got another few weeks before he has to decide if he wants to stay in Russia for hockey or try for the NHL and he already feels a little bit like he’s losing everything he cares about, so he thinks it’s understandable if he’s panicking a little because it is very nearly midnight — 

“I still don’t know if this was the right choice.” 

Alexei drops the notebook he’s been using to make an NHL pro/con list. He’s in his soulmate’s head, it’s dark, and people are speaking English in hushed tones nearby. Relief-worry-guilt crash through his mind, for once mimicking his own emotions nearly exactly. 

“It absolutely was, Marie.” 

Alexei can’t exactly tell what’s going on, but it seems like his soulmate is…spying? eavesdropping? on two women from the second story of a house. The women are sitting on a couch in a dimly-lit room; one of the women has obviously been crying. Alexei’s still a long way from fluent in English, and his spoken English will probably never be great, but he can follow the thread of most conversations.  

“He’s my husband. My soulmate.” 

“Yes. He is. And he is also a <something something> monster. You can only change one of those facts.” 

Marie sniffles. “He’s my soulmate, though. We’re <something> be together. The universe —.” 

“Fuck the universe,” snaps the other woman, and Alexei can’t help a small smirk. That particular word he picked up from hockey, not his Easy English Today! CDs. “First thing tomorrow, we’re talking <something> lawyer.” 

“What’s happening?” Whispers a new voice, and Alexei’s soulmate turns to see the little girl that he’s pretty sure is his soulmate’s younger sister. Her eyes are huge and dark, and she’s wearing purple pajamas. 

“Mom and Aunt Helen are talking,” his soulmate says. It’s not the first time Alexei’s heard his soulmate’s voice, but it’s the first time he’s been able to understand the words properly. Also, the back of Alexei’s mind supplies, his soulmate’s mama’s name is Marie, and she has a sister named Helen. 

“Are Mom and Dad getting <something>?” 

He feels both the tension and the shrug. “Don’t know. Probably.” 

The little girl’s face resolves into something serious. “Good. I hate him.” 

“Katie,” his soulmate chides, and Alexei is praising his good fortune — a mother’s name, an aunt’s name, and a sister’s name — when he’s abruptly back in his own mind. 

“Marie, Helen, Katie,” Alexei breathes. He looks up the word for divorce in his Easy English Today! dictionary and sounds it out; yes, that could have been what both Helen and Katie said. Maybe. If his soulmate’s parents are getting divorced, honestly, Alexei’s with Katie on this one. 

  

**[KENT, 14]**

Buffalo isn’t so bad, once they settle in. Kent had to change hockey teams, and he and Katie had to change schools (one guess as to which of these Kent is more upset about), but their mom seems happy and they only live ten minutes from Aunt Helen. The Sabres are here, even though they mostly suck. As a special added bonus, Kent now only gets hit on the ice, and _Jesus_ is he getting hit. He just moved into a league that allows full contact, and he’s still little and speedy and can’t seem to stop himself from spouting off smart-ass comments. Sometimes he feels like he spends as much timing bouncing off the ice as he does skating on it. 

It’s awesome.  

His soulminute comes early for once, when Kent’s struggling through a summer school assignment on the little balcony of their apartment. He’s going to the Q in two years and to the NHL after that, it’s not like he _needs_ school, but his mom says he has to at least get his GED. _What if you get injured, Kent? What if you get a concussion?_

Kent thinks that if he was given a choice between analyzing the use of symbolism in some novel written a century before he was born and getting a concussion or two, he’d pick the concussions. Or maybe he’d pick neither, because it’s his birthday and he feels like he should get a free pass on his birthday. But it’s not up to him yet, so he’s all highlighter-stained fingers and half-thought-out thesis statement when he gets bumped out of his head. 

His soulmate is sitting in an office that smells like the basement of an ice rink. There’s a guy sitting at the desk across from him with very little hair on his head and a lot in his mustache, and he’s saying something in the language that Kent still can’t identify. The man seems pretty happy, and Kent’s soulmate is full of excitement-caution-pleased-proud, so they must be talking about something nice. 

Kent’s soulmate shrugs, and there’s a twinge in the right side of his neck that tells Kent he must’ve taken a weird hit a couple days ago. Kent has all of two seconds to worry about that before his soulmate says something back, maybe one or two words, and _whoa._ His soulmate’s voice must’ve broken between now and the last time Kent heard him. That is a _rumble_ , and the vibration shakes through Kent’s ribs. 

The man across the desk says something else, and Kent really needs to figure out what language this is so he can learn it. The man flicks at a big envelope that’s sitting on the desk, and Kent’s soulmate slowly reaches out to take it. 

It’s the first time Kent’s seen the language his soulmate speaks written down, and it looks like…Russian? Bulgarian? Isn’t there a written language like Cryllic or Cylrilic or Crlyic or something that Kent never knows how to say, but is supposed to look like this with the backwards R’s and everything? He’s lamenting the fact that he can’t take a picture of what he’s seeing now to take to the library when he notices something else about the envelope, something way more immediately identifiable. 

That’s the NHL logo stamped in the upper-left corner. This letter or packet or whatever it is, it came from the NHL. 

Holy shit. 

His soulmate picks up the envelope, cradling it in massive hands like it’ll dissolve if he holds it too firmly. He walks out of the office with these careful, tiny steps, and fumbles a phone out of his hockey bag the second he door closes behind him. He starts a call to someone, and the woman who picks up on the other end sounds like she’s maybe a few years older than Kent. A sister, maybe? 

Girlfriend? 

Kent’s stomach does something…weird. 

Whoever it is, the conversation is quick and unintelligible, and there’s a bubble of happy in Kent’s chest that’s swelling by the second. His soulmate opens the envelope and pulls out a heavy folder with the NHL logo, big and stark and official, on the cover. Kent can’t make sense of the pages inside that his soulmate slowly flips through, probably reading the important bits out loud to the girl on the phone, but he knows there’s exactly one reason the NHL would send a multi-page document to a hockey-playing non-North American resident who’s a couple years older than Kent. That’s a request to confirm interest and eligibility in the NHL Entry Draft. The bubble builds and builds until Kent realizes with a start that he’s crying tears of happiness. 

Like, _Kent_ is crying. His soulmate is, sure, but Kent is actually sitting on this balcony in the sunshine crying. 

His soulmate is going to the NHL. Holy shit. _Holy shit_. 

  

**[ALEXEI, 18]**

If everything goes according to plan, Alexei only has a few months left in Russia. 

He’s committed to the NHL draft. All his paperwork is in order, drawn up in duplicate: One set for if he goes to an American team, another for if he ends up in Canada. He has an agent here in Russia, but he’s going on a short trip to New York next month to meet an American agent. After that it’s Toronto for the combine, to Washington for a few weeks at Alexander Ovechkin’s insistence (he seems determined to take every new Russian NHL prospect under his wing, something that makes Alexei think he must’ve been lonely last year after his own draft), back home for about a month, and then he gets on a one-way flight to Ottawa for the draft. 

“You’re talking about it like you’ll literally never be in Russia again,” Sabina laughs. “You’ll come home during the off season, and think of the money, Alyosha — you’ll be able to fly your parents and me out to visit you all the time.” 

“I don’t care about the money,” Alexei says, and it’s mostly true. The money will certainly be nice, and he is looking forward to bringing his parents out for vacation, but this is about hockey. This has always been about hockey. 

Sabina makes a face at him, and Alexei thinks for the umpteenth time how lucky he is to have met her. They became close friends after Alexei turned Sabina down three years ago, and Sabina’s been one of the only things keeping him sane since. He has his parents, of course, but they’re parents. His cousins are still too young to really talk to, and his teammates — Alexei likes his teammates, don’t get him wrong, but he’s been playing a couple age levels up for years now and changing teams so rapidly as his prospects evolve that he’s never really made close friends. Sabina’s been a godsend. Her soulmate (a kid they think lives in Moscow, Sabina’s only got two minutes of information so far) is a lucky, lucky guy. 

“Stop pouting,” she says. “We’re going to go to an amazing birthday dinner with your parents tonight, we’ll spend the next five months doing every awesome thing we can think of, and the first thing you’ll do with all that money you don’t want is buy me a ticket to come see you over American Thanksgiving. What’s the latest guess on where you’ll end up?” 

Alexei sighs and sprawls his legs out on the floor in front of him. Sabina’s cat, Roman, pounces on his shoelace. “Vancouver, maybe. Chicago. Washington.” 

Sabina snorts. “You’re not going to go _fifteenth_ , idiot. What about Seattle?” 

“Maybe.”  

She slaps him across the back of the head. “Don’t give me that shit. You’re good enough to go sixth.” 

“Maybe,” Alexei starts to say again — more to see what Sabina will do than anything else — when he’s suddenly looking at a sneering teenage boy. 

His soulmate is standing outside what looks like a school, squared up against another kid. There’s snow on the ground, the kind of snow that sits in a hard grey pile until spring, and a bunch of other kids gathered around them in a loose circle. 

“You shouldn’t’ve said those things to Hafsa,” Alexei’s soulmate says, and Alexei gets caught up translating that mess of a conjunction (English is a stupid language) for a second and misses the rest of his soulmate’s sentence. 

The other boy scoffs. “Didn’t say anything that wasn’t true.” (Also! Double negatives!! English is awful.) 

“Said a lot of things that weren’t true, actually,” Alexei’s soulmate says. “And a lot of mean things. And you were stupid enough to say them where I could hear them, which is the magic trifecta.” (Alexei looks this word up later.) 

A hand touches Alexei’s soulmate’s arm, and he looks over to see a girl in a headscarf looking at him with wide brown eyes. 

“You don’t have to do this,” she says. “He’s just a bully. It didn’t even bother me that much.” 

“Bullies don’t stop unless you make them stop,” his soulmate says. He carefully shakes off the girl’s hand and turns back to the other boy. 

“Very sweet,” drawls the kid, whom Alexei is really starting to dislike. “Is she your soulmate? Your little girlfriend?” 

“No,” Alexei’s soulmate says flatly. “She’s a person, and you should treat people better.” 

“Make me,” the kid snarls. 

Alexei’s soulmate makes a show of looking at his empty wrist and heaving a put-upon sigh. “Fine. But we’ll have to make this fast, I have hockey practice.” 

The kid launches himself at Alexei’s soulmate, and. Well. Alexei, as a rule, doesn’t start fights off the ice, but he'll make an exception. 

A teacher’s rushing over to break up the fight when Alexei’s view shifts back to Sabina’s living room, and he touches his jaw gingerly with an aching hand. His soulmate needs to learn how to throw a decent punch. Wouldn’t be a bad idea for him to learn to block, either, if he’s going to keep picking fights with people who’ve got what felt like four inches and thirty pounds on him. 

 

Sabina is holding her sides and shaking with laughter by the time Alexei finishes recounting the scene to her. 

“Of course,” she says, wiping tears out of her eyes. “Of _course_ your soulmate is a scrappy, sarcastic little asshole who gets in fights standing up for the underdog.” 

Alexei frowns. “He could’ve gotten hurt. He won’t be able to play hockey if he gets hurt.” 

That, for some reason, only makes Sabina laugh harder. 

  

**[KENT, 15]**

Since the upcoming draft is probably the one when Kent’s soulmate will be drafted, Kent tries to pay attention to news about it. But his soulmate could defer or get injured, or the NHL could’ve sent him the draft information a year early, and at any rate over 200 players are going to get drafted and all anyone wants to talk about is Sidney Crosby. Most of the other names don’t mean anything to Kent, except for Carey Price (Kent is always on the lookout for brick walls he’s probably going to have to figure out a way around) and Mark Staal, because the Staals are clearing trying to start some sort of hockey dynasty and that seems like something Kent should have on his radar. 

He should probably at least make a list of all the potential draftees who are from countries that use something close to that weird text Kent saw on his soulmate’s mail, but whatever. It’s not like his soulmate is going anywhere. He’s got time. And this is probably his last full summer at home — he and Zimms have been talking, and Kent’s going to move in with the Zimmermanns in July next year to get ready for the QMJHL season. The point is that Kent has better things to do with his summer than make some sort of draftee spreadsheet, and one of those things is walking down to the 7-11 with his little sister to get Bomb Pops. 

“Are you going to learn to drive before you move to Canada?” Katie asks. She’s carrying a Pikachu backpack that holds her allowance, plus an extra two dollars their mom gave her because Kent shouldn’t have to buy his own birthday Bomb Pop. 

“I’m not moving to Canada, Katie,” Kent says. “I’m just going to live with Jack and his parents for a while so I can play hockey.” 

“You can play hockey here.” 

“Not the type of hockey I need to be playing. Montreal’s only, like, six hours away. You’ll see me all the time.” 

Katie sulks a little bit at that, and Kent gets pulled into his soulmate’s head while she’s still pouting. 

His soulmate is on a plane, and from the slightly stiff feeling in his hips and back, it’s been a long flight. His soulmate is reading a Harry Potter book and — holy crap, it’s in English. His soulmate is reading Harry Potter in _English_. He must be learning it, which fills Kent with a weird sense of pride (his soulmate is _smart_ ). 

Is that why the soulmatch brought Kent to this moment? The general consensus is that your soulmatch uses a soulminute to show you something you need to know about your soulmate, is this — learning English — what Kent’s supposed to be getting out of this? Kent’s cool with spending this minute re-reading about Harry’s attempts to open the egg for the second Triwizard challenge, but it seems like a bit of a waste. 

Kent’s mental timer is down to 20 seconds left by the time a flight attendant comes by, jabbers something Kent can’t understand, and hands his soulmate a form and tiny pencil. His soulmate reaches forward to grab something tucked into the little pocket on the back of the seat in front of him, and — that’s a passport. That is a red-jacketed passport and stamped across the front under that language of backwards R’s are the words “Russian Federation.” 

“Kent, you’re not even listening to me,” Katie complains, and Kent falls back into his own head.

“Sorry, Katie-Kate,” he says. “Soulminutes don’t come with warnings.” 

Katie gasps, thrilled. She’d had her own first soulminute a few weeks ago and has spent every free second since since watching terrible Lifetime and Hallmark movie about soulmates (of which there are an alarming amount, in Kent’s opinion). “What did you see?!” 

“He’s Russian,” Kent says quietly, then repeats it a tiny bit louder. “He’s Russian. And he’s going to be in the NHL.” 

Katie is glowing. “You’re going to be able to find him.” 

“I’m going to be able to find him,” Kent echoes. 


	2. i will wait, i will wait, i will wait (by the fire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore every single one of you. I will try to respond to comments! (A lot of your comments were about how nice and light and fluffy the first chapter was, so don't, you know, hate me for what happens next.)
> 
> Please heed and note the updated tags. Jack and Kent are 16-17 for most of this chapter.

**[ALEXEI, 19]**

  

Alexei doesn’t really like Seattle. 

The team is fine. The coaching staff is smart. There are a few Russians on the team Alexei can spend time with when he’s missing home too much. He’s playing good hockey, even if he hasn’t been able to really connect with any of the other defensemen enough to form a lasting d-pair. The Schooners will probably go to the playoffs this year, even if no one’s expecting them to make it very far. Everyone’s just happy to be playing hockey again, for the most part, after the disastrous non-season from last year. 

It’s _Seattle_ he doesn’t like.

Seattle is the type of city that happens when people who never thought more than a couple hundred thousand people would need to live in an area plan a city. Seattle is crowded and sprawling, tense with class disputes, constantly piling more people on top  of a struggling infrastructure. The water is pretty, Alexei supposes, but it’s like the mountains are taunting him — he gets glimpses of them between buildings, across the horizon, and for a second he can pretend he’s back in Russia, but he never actually has time to make it out to them. 

“Why is everyone looking at their shoes?” Sabina asks. “How are you supposed to meet people if all they do is stare at the ground?” 

“It’s considered rude to make eye contact on public transit,” Alexei explains. They’re on a streetcar from one side of the city to the other. Sabina’s only in town for a few days and she’d insisted on seeing the men who throw fish through the air at Pike Place Market, so even though the last place Alexei wants to spend his Saturday morning is an a tourist-filled Pike Place, that’s where they’re headed.  

“Americans are weird,” Sabina says.

“Not so loud,” Alexei hisses. 

“Americans don’t speak _Russian_ ,” Sabina says haughtily, and they’re getting a dirty look from the one older man on this streetcar who looks like he just might speak Russian after all when Alexei’s suddenly staring at a washing machine. 

“Did you separate them into whites and colors?” A disembodied voice asks. Alexei hones in on a beat-up cell phone sitting on a nearby shelf. 

“Is that racist?” Alexei’s soulmate asks. “I’m pretty sure that’s racist.” 

The phone heaves a sigh. “Do you want me to get Mom?” 

“No no no, Katie, I just — I’m sorry,” Alexei’s soulmate says. “Don’t bother Mom. We can figure this out.” 

“She’s fine,” Katie says defensively. “She’s been doing fine.” 

“Not getting out of bed for three days at a stretch isn’t ‘fine,’ Katie-Kate. Has Aunt Helen been coming over?” 

“Couple times a week.” 

The silence from the phone is heavy. Alexei’s soulmate picks it up and cradles it to his ear. “Katie?” 

“Yeah?” 

“You know I’ll come home, right? If you need me, I’ll come home.”

“What help would you be? A big brother who can’t even do laundry.” The tone is gentle, but Alexei’s soulmate feels it like someone just stuffed an ice cube into his heart. 

“I _can_ do laundry,” his soulmate retorts, managing to keep the shake he feels out of his voice. “It’s not my fault that my billet family has the same technology as NASA.” 

“Alyosha?” 

Alexei blinks back to Sabina, who’s watching him with concern between her brows. “I’m fine. Just my soulminute.” 

Sabina looks more alarmed than before. “Is he all right?” 

“No,” Alexei says immediately. Then, “Yes. I don’t know. He’s worried.” 

“Anything that will help you find him?” 

Alexei considers. “He’s staying with a billet family. He’s still playing good hockey.” 

“You, my friend, have a one-track mind.” Sabina looks out the window. “How much further?” 

Alexei squints around, disoriented, then groans. “We missed our stop. C’mon, we’ll have to get off and walk.” 

“Walk? In February?” 

“You’re from _Russia_ ,” Alexei protests. 

 

**[KENT, 16]**

Kent wishes his birthday was between September and May. It’d be so easy to figure out who his soulmate was if his soulminutes happened during the NHL season. Did his soulmate actually go through with the draft? A whole bunch of Russians were drafted both this year and last, which are the years Kent’s soulmate probably _would_ have gone if he _did_ go, how’s Kent supposed to narrow it down from that list? And what if the folder Kent saw his soulmate get was just, like, follow-up from a draft he’d already been in? What if his soulmate is, like, Evgeni Malkin?  

(That actually might not be too bad. Evgeni Malkini is a mix of dork and serious and _dirty_ puck handling that really, really works for Kent.)

The point is that it’s Kent’s sixteenth birthday, he’s a little tipsy (he thinks?? he’s never had more than a few sips of beer before) because the Zimmermanns don’t seem to care too much about the legal drinking age in Canada on birthdays, and for the first time in his life he’s annoyed that his birthday is on the Fourth of July. Fireworks are great, sure, but fireworks don’t get him any closer to figuring out who his soulmate is. 

Especially not when his soulminute is a _useless_ sixty seconds of looking through his soulmate’s eyes at what seem to be adoring family and friends, all happily jabbering in Russian over a large meal. 

(Kent should’ve started learning Russian by now. He told himself he was going to. He meant to. It’s just that there’s been hockey, and school, and Katie, and his mom, and he figured since he was moving here to Montreal soon he should probably focus on trying to pick up enough French to get by.)

“What d’you think your soulmate sees when she sees you?” Kent asks. 

Jack cranes his head over the back of the couch to look at where Kent is trying to mimic poses from Mrs. Zimms’ yoga poster. “What?” 

“Everyone wonders about it, right?” Kent falls out of something that involves tucking his kneecaps up into his armpits and tipping all his weight onto his hands. He doesn’t bother getting off the floor; it’s nice down here. “During their soulminutes, I mean. What do you think your soulmate sees?” 

Jack is quiet, then, “I don’t think about it much.” 

Kent doesn’t know Jack super well yet, but he knows that’s a lie. “Sure. Y’know if you don’t find her soon, you’re probably going to have to deal with people pretending to be your soulmate? Like that thing with Gretzky. Or Yzerman.” 

Jack rolls his eyes and goes back to watching whatever old game he’s watching. “I doubt that.” 

“No, you _will_ , though,” Kent says. It’s very important to him that Jack understands this, so he can be, be…prepared. He scrambles around to the front of the couch. “You’re going to go first in our draft. You’re going to win a million Stanley Cups and the Calder and probably, like, everything else. Everyone’s going to want a piece of you.” 

Jack studiously avoids meeting Kent’s eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

Kent flops onto his back. “I bet all my soulmate ever sees about me is hockey. I bet he thinks I’m just some idiot hockey player.” 

Jack doesn’t respond right away, and Kent concentrates on trying to count the kernels in the Zimmermanns’ awful popcorn ceiling. Jack finally says, very quietly, “He?” 

Kent freezes. He rewinds and replays the last few sentences of conversation. He could deny it, obviously, and Jack would let him, because no one’s ever made it to The Show with a same-sex soulmatch and Jack, so far, seems to want Kent by his side as much as Kent wants to be there, or he could just — 

“Yeah,” Kent says, swallowing down his fear. “He.” 

Jack is quiet again, then, “Oh. Okay. Do you know who he is?” 

Kent’s mouth is making too much spit. Is this what happens when you drink? “No. Not yet. But. I’m pretty sure he’s in the NHL.” 

Jack’s eyes go big. “ _Calice_ , Kenny, you don’t do anything halfway, do you?” 

(Tryouts for the Q teams are in a few weeks. Kent can’t go back to Buffalo. He thinks he’ll die if he goes back to Buffalo.)

 

**[ALEXEI, 20]**

“They’re not going to trade you.” 

“No, they’re not,” Alexei mopes. “It’s an expansion draft. They don’t have to trade me to get rid of me, they just have to leave me exposed.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” Alexei can hear his papa puttering around in the background of the call, maybe finally working on the shelves Mama’s been asking him to build for the past couple months. “You’re playing well.” 

“I’m playing fine, but the defense bench is deep and I’m not in one of the top pairs. They only get to protect so many players in each position.” 

Alexei’s mama sighs. “Would it really be the worst thing?” 

Alexei sits up on his bed. “What?” 

“You’re always saying that you don’t like Seattle, Alyosha. You haven’t made many friends on the team, you don’t get on particularly well with the other defensemen. Would it be the worst thing if you got a chance to start over in a new city?” 

Alexei looks around at his impersonal bedroom. The Schooners helped him find a furnished apartment when he first moved here, and he never really bothered to make it his own. His clothes are in the drawers, but he could pack those up and be out of here in a matter of hours, probably. There’d be no sign that he was ever here. “It feels like failing,” he says quietly, not really meaning to say it out loud at all. 

“It’s not failing if you keep trying,” his mama says. 

Alexei thinks about it. _Everyone_ would be new in Las Vegas, not just Alexei. He’s already heard rumors about a few of the other guys who are likely to be unprotected, and it’s not what he would’ve expected (journeymen, players with disciplinary issues, guys with a year or two left before retirement). Instead, the grapevine has people like Travis Torterelli and Peter Barlen being interested in this expansion draft. Guys who are good, solid players, who’ve been in the league for a few years, looking to make a big impact on a new franchise. 

Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing? 

“I’ll think about it,” Alexei says.

His mama laughs and distantly repeats what he said to his father, who laughs raucously and responds. “Your father says we won’t book any more flights to Seattle. We love you, Alyosha. Happy birthday.” 

Alexei sits on his bed for a long couple minutes after the call ends, spinning the phone around in his hand. He always pictured himself as a franchise player, someone who stays with one team for most of his career. It’s rare, he knows, it’s just always how he’s felt. He’s loyal, he _wants_ to be loyal, and he wants a franchise to be loyal to him. He doesn’t want to move. Right? 

Abruptly, he’s on the ice. 

Not his ice. This isn’t the Schooners’ practice arena or Amazon Stadium. It’s not any of the rinks Alexei knows from Russia. It’s just ice, a rink as familiar and foreign as any ice he’s ever been on, and his soulmate is skating wide, steady laps. 

The right-left-right-left-right-left- _push_ , left- _push_ , right-left- _push_  is soothing. His soulmate’s stride is a little shorter than Alexei’s, but his turnover makes up for it. He’s the only once on the ice. The bleachers are empty. This feels like something he can do forever. 

Someone calls from the tunnel, and Alexei’s soulmate’s rhythm falters for a fraction of a second. He recovers and skates over to the gate, where a kid probably three years younger than Alexei is leveling him with a serious gaze. 

The other guys says something, and it’s a language Alexei thinks is probably French. (How is this fair? He already learned English for his soulmate, now he needs to learn  _French_?) 

Alexei’s soulmate answers in halting, painful French that he pieces together one word at a time. The other guy winces theatrically. 

The banter is gentle and practiced, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. Eventually the other guy (who looks familiar, although Alexei can’t quite place him) sets his bag down and starts offering what Alexei guesses is constructive criticism on some aspect of his soulmate’s technique. Their voices echo around the arena. 

Alexei blinks back to his bedroom. 

His soulmate is somewhere new. Why shouldn’t Alexei try somewhere new? 

 

**[KENT, 17]**

Kent knows that Jack Zimmermann isn’t his soulmate. 

It doesn’t stop Kent from being in love with him. 

It’s just so fucking _easy_ to fall for Jack. Jack and his beautiful fucking hockey and his shaking hands and his historic fiction novels and his nightmares and his drive and his _beautiful. fucking. hockey_. Kent never stood a chance, really, and even though he knows Jack isn’t his and he’s not Jack's, he decides that he’s had enough of the universe telling him what he can’t have. 

Kent kisses Jack for the first time on his seventeenth birthday. They finished their first season in the Q with the sort of record that’s making people pay attention, they spent June half-assedly completing school assignments, Kent leaves to go back to Buffalo for the summer in a few days, and Kent _wants_. 

Jack kisses him back, those hands that Kent admires so much on the ice now braced around Kent's jaw. Jack says “We probably shouldn’t” and “We’re not soulmates” and “My parents could come downstairs,” but he keeps kissing Kent until they’re both flushed and half-hard. 

The basement is silent, save for their breathing. Kent’s never heard breathing this loud in his life. 

“It’s a bad idea,” Jack says, after an eternity. “We should stay focused on hockey.” 

Kent snorts because honestly, _this guy_. “We’re not getting married, Zimms. I’m not going to fall in love with you.” 

[It’s a lie. It’s already a lie. Kent doesn’t do anything halfway.]

Kent is in bed, awake, staring at the ceiling when his soulminute kicks in. 

…what the everloving _fuck_ is his soulmate doing in Las Vegas? 

The skyline's recognizable, even if Kent’s never been further west than St. Louis. The glowing pyramid thing (probably a casino? Everything in Las Vegas is a casino, right?) is peeking out between other buildings. Someone throws an arm around his shoulders, and oh, _oh_ — 

Kent’s soulmate is drunk. Like, _really_ drunk. 

Kent giggles a little, hearing it echoed in stereo by his soulmate. The head attached to the arm around his shoulders shouts, “Welcome to Vegas, kid!” with the sort of enthusiasm Kent reserves for cellies, and then fireworks start going off overhead. 

It’s a pretty fucking awesome birthday. 

(Kent’s soulmate won’t care that Kent is in love with Jack, right? Kent is years away from meeting his soulmate, probably. It’ll be fine. Right?) 

 

**[ALEXEI, 21]**

There’s a bright light shining in his soulmate’s eyes. 

Alexei’s soulmate tries to pull away from it, but there’s a steady hand at the back of his head keeping him in place. 

“What’s the date?” Someone asks. 

Alexei’s soulmate’s head is fuzzy. That’s the best word Alexei’s got for it. Things feel…distant. Distant and slow. It takes him a long time to realize that the question was directed at him, and when he does, he can’t think of the answer. There’s panic there, here, but it’s mostly confusion and space. 

“It’s okay,” the person says. “Today is the seventh of February. Do you know where we are?” 

It clicks for Alexei, even if it hasn’t clicked for his soulmate yet. This is concussion protocol.

Alexei’s managed to avoid concussions thus far in his career. He’s never imagined that would last forever — he plays clean but he hits hard, and teams sometimes take exception to that — but if this is what a concussion feels like, he might redouble his effort to continue avoiding them. 

Someone comes barreling into the training room. Alexei’s soulmate tries to focus on them, but a hand is placed over his eyes and another hand presses at his shoulder until he lays down. The padded bench thing feels lumpy against his skin. 

“Careful,” the person who’s been talking to Alexei’s soulmate growls, and Alexei’s soulmate shrinks in on himself before realizing that the warning wasn’t for him. 

“ _Désolé_ ,” the new arrival says. The French feels like someone Alexei knows, but mental processing speed is at maybe 15%, and other words are already happening. “Is he all right?”

Words rise in Alexei’s throat — he needs to say that he’s okay, he shouldn’t worry anyone — no, no, that’s Alexei’s soulmate thinking that, Alexei is  _not_ about to mess around with a concussion — but the words get stuck anyway and then he forgets about words, and then there’s a hand in his hand and the French person says “It’s okay, you’ll be okay, you are _fine_ ” like it’s an order. 

“He has a concussion,” says the other person. A trainer, Alexei guesses. “Mild, maybe moderate. We need to get him to a hospital, get him checked out. Call his mom.”  

“No, he can’t —.” The French person cuts himself off, obviously distressed. Alexei’s soulmate tries to comfort him, but he’s not sure…how. “How long will he be out?” 

“No’ ouuuuut,” Alexei’s soulmate tries to say. His heart is beating way, way too fast. 

“At least four weeks, probably longer, then non-contact for awhile,” the trainer says firmly. 

“That’s almost the whole rest of the season.” Frenchie sounds numb. “I can’t — I can’t do this without him.” 

The trainer sighs. “You’re going to have to. You guys are young, so he’ll heal fast, but we can’t risk anything compounding it. Shit, get that bucket, he’s going to puke.” 

The minute ends just before Alexei’s stomach can revolt in sympathy. The lights in his hotel room suddenly seem far too bright; he leans over to hit the dimmer. 

Sava tears his gaze away from the TV, where the Schooners and the Avs are struggling through a chippy third period. “You okay?”

Alexei can’t suppress a full-body shudder. His brain still feels like it’s tacked down in mud. “Headache. My soulmate’s hurt.” 

Sava’s eyes widen. “Bad?” 

Alexei nods. 

“Is she,” Sava starts, then visibly checks himself and starts again. “She’ll recover, right?” 

Alexei wasn’t out to anyone on the Schooners. He didn’t have friends in Seattle so much as he had teammates, and he was so used to keeping it close to the vest in Russia that he never felt like he needed to expose himself to that risk. 

Here, though. (Not _here_ -here, they’re on a roadie and in Phoenix for the night. Vegas-here.) Here, where the coach’s daughter has a same-sex soulmatch. Where some of the new vets (they’re all new to Vegas, but guys like Torts and Barley are still vets) quickly shut down locker room conversations that Alexei’s used to having to tune out. Where Alexei’s regular roommate and closest friend on the team, Sava, is from a city just 45 minutes from Alexei’s hometown and hasn’t ever said an unkind word. Alexei thinks Sava’s son might have a same-sex soulmatch, just from the careful way Sava talks about it. 

Alexei clears his throat and says, slowly, “He should be fine.” 

Sava sucks his teeth for a second. “Is he from Russia, too?” 

“American,” Alexei manages to say around the lump in his throat. “I’m pretty sure.” 

“Who else knows?” 

“Just my parents, and a few people at home,” Alexei says, then amends, “Ovi might know.” 

Sava barks out a single laugh. “Wouldn’t be surprised. I can’t wait until he finds his soulmate, he’s a pain in the ass with this much free time on his hands. Although I can’t imagine who the universe could possible find to match with _Alexander Ovechkin_.” 

 

**[KENT, 18]**

Kent knows there’s something wrong. He knows that Zimms is hurting, and that he's dealing with it in all the wrong ways.

Sure, this season wasn’t what either of them wanted. Kent only got back on the ice for the last month or so before the tournament, and they had an unspectacular exit from that early on. Zimms was so used to having to carry the team by himself while Kent was out — and so tired from it — that they had trouble getting back into sync. Kent can replay their missed connections during the final desperate minutes of their last few games on a mental lowlight reel. 

Kent, despite having nearly six weeks off (“It’s not a vacation,” Dr. McClellan says. “You’re recovering from a literal brain injury. Stop acting like you’re slacking off.”), is feeling rundown. He and Zimms got into all of these shouting matches during the end of the season, they had all this wild half-hate sex, and now they’re barely talking. Zimms has been ducking out of rooms when Kent walks into them.  

He gets why Zimms is mad at him. Kent fucked up. He got hurt and fucked up the season, and now they only have next season left before their draft. They were under enough pressure when they had three full seasons in the Q to prove themselves, now they’re down to last year’s — which was good, but they were babies then — and next year’s. They basically have to win the Memorial Cup at this rate.

It’s worse for Zimms, Kent knows. Kent’s a nobody from upstate New York; if Kent flames out, well, no one was expecting too much. If Bad Bob’s kid flames out, people are going to have a lot to say. People _already_ have a lot to say. 

Zimms started taking anxiety meds at some point while Kent’s head was messed up. Zimms tries to, like, hide it from Kent? Which is weird, because Kent’s not judging and Zimms should _know_ that. Jack’s listened to Kent rant about wishing his mom would do something, get some sort of help. Kent doesn’t care if Zimms needs medication to help keep his head level. 

Kent _does_ care that Zimms has been mixing his meds with alcohol. 

Not often, and not when he thinks Kent can see. But. Still. 

Now Kent’s leaving for the summer, staring at his stupid packed suitcase, and he hasn’t even _seen_ Zimms today, wonders if Zimms will even _deign_ to say goodbye, and — 

His soulmate’s back in Russia. 

Kent’s seen this house before, he’s pretty sure. His soulmate is in the kitchen, refilling a glass of water, then he follows the sound of warm chatter down the hall to a dining room that Kent has definitely seen before. Kent realizes with a start that he recognizes most of the faces around the table. Some are members of his soulmate’s family (Kent thinks, anyway), but there’s also a healthy representation of NHL players talking through mouths of half-chewed food. 

Someone lobs a dinner roll at Kent’s soulmate head, and that — that’s Alexander Ovechkin. Sitting next to Evgeni Malkin. Just casually at dinner with Kent’s soulmate. Sure. 

His soulmate takes a seat between one of the guys who got drafted by the new expansion team (Popov, maybe? Kent’s pretty sure everyone calls him Peaches) and a girl who looks to be maybe eight years old. Kent’s soulmate whispers something to her that makes her roll her eyes and stick her tongue out through a gap in her teeth. It’s adorable. 

Kent’s Russian vocab is still limited to swear words (he gets it, soulmatch, okay, he will _try_ ), so he can’t follow the conversation, but he knows one thing when his vision resolves pack to his pathetic suitcase: He wants that. That warm-fond-loved-affection that his soulmate is full of right now, that sense of comfort and family and contentment. Kent wants it. 

Lots of other people have that, Kent knows, but Kent is — Kent’s not sure he’s _ever_ had it. The Zimmermans are nice, his billet families are nice, but Kent’s always been painfully aware that he’s the odd one out at the dinner table. And at home, in Buffalo (or Rochester, before that)…

…maybe it’s a problem with _Kent_? 

“You’re leaving?” 

Kent turns at the words. Zimms is standing in his doorway, eyes empty. His hand is opening and closing at his side. Kent can see, even from here, that his fingers are shaking.

“It’s been on your calendar for weeks,” Kent says. There’s something nasty in his voice. 

“Were you even going to say goodbye?” 

[Here’s what you need to know about this moment: They get past it. They won’t ever address it directly, but by the time Kent comes back in September, they’ll be back to normal. Kent will do everything he can to make Zimms laugh just to see Jack breathe easier even for a second; Jack will help Kenny stay focused, help him keep improving his game, because Jack doesn’t know how to love except through hockey yet. They will depend on and and challenge each other. They will patent the Zimmermann-Parson no-look one-timer. They will win the Memorial Cup. They’ll plan for their rookie years in the NHL. The whole damn _world_ will plan for their rookie years. 

Here’s what else you need to know about this moment: Jack is going to ask Kent to stay. Jack is going to try to talk to Kenny about what’s going on with the anxiety and the pressure and the pills, even though Jack doesn’t really have the words. He'll try. Jack’s soulmate is so, so brave, and Jack’s trying to be braver now too. 

Here’s the last thing you need to know about this moment: Jack, hurt and scared and nervous, says, _Were you even going to say goodbye_  and Kent, hurt and worried and insecure, hears, _You fucked this up, too_.]

“You’re not my soulmate,” Kent says coldly. He slams his suitcase shut and zips it with a jerk. “I don’t owe you anything.” 

[Here’s the other last thing you need to know about this moment: They don’t get past it. Not really. Not in time.] 

When he looks up again, Jack is gone. 

  

**[ALEXEI, 22]**

There are a couple universal truths that all hockey players subscribe to: 

You always hang up your pads so they can air out. 

You don’t mess with a teammate’s superstitions. 

Pre-game nap time is sacred. 

Gary Bettman is a tool. 

Waking up to a phone call from your agent in the middle of a season is never a good thing.

“Reid,” Alexei greets, rubbing grit out of his eyes. “What is happening?” 

“Hi, Alexei,” Reid says. Alexei can hear the tension in his voice from 1,500 miles away. “Sorry to do this on your birthday. You need to be in Providence by tomorrow morning. My office booked your ticket, it’s in your inbox.” 

Alexei’s still mostly asleep, so it takes a long few seconds for things to fall into place. 

He’s been traded.

“Thank you,” Alexei says, and hangs up. He sits up on the edge of his bed and puts his head in his hands. 

He _likes_ the Aces. He likes Vegas. He thought he’d be here for years. He’s in a solid d-pairing, he has good rapport with the coaches and older guys, he doesn’t fuck up too much. He thought he’d stay. He wants to stay.

His phone pings. It’s a text from Sava, just a string of expletives. Alexei agrees.   

He doesn’t even remember where Reid said he was going. He Googles himself, and there it is: _Mashkov to Providence Falconers for a first-round pick in this year’s entry draft._

Alexei doesn’t pay too much attention to talk about the draft this early in the year because it tends to just be speculation, but there’s been a lot of buzz about the kids coming up. The Falcs haven’t been doing well, and are probably going to be near the top of the selection order. They may have just given up a shot at someone like Jack Zimmermann or John Tavares or Kent Parson. For Alexei.

His phone rings again. It’s an unknown number. 

“Alexei? It’s Georgia Martin, assistant GM for the Falconers.” 

“Hello,” he says. He should be more enthusiastic, probably, but it’s now 6:30 in the morning and his life’s been flipped on its head for the second time in as many years. 

“I know your agent’s been in touch with you,” she says, steamrolling past his terseness. “I’d like to be the first to welcome you to the Falconers.” 

There’s dead air, then Alexei remembers to say, “Thank you.” 

She sighs. “Listen. I get that this is a surprise to you. You’ve been doing really well in Vegas, and I know you’ve got friends on that team.” 

Alexei makes a half-strangled noise of agreement.

“We’ve been hurting on defense for years,” she continues. “Something had to change. The guys coming up in draft are great, but we don’t need more guys who can score goals right now. We need guys who can protect _our_ goal. We asked our team leadership to come up with a wish list of d-men from across the league, and we’re making moves. You haven’t seen it yet, and don’t tell anyone I told you, but we’re getting St. Martin too. Should be public later today.” 

Alexei blinks. " _Sebastian_ St. Martin? From Sharks?” Alexei’s played St. Martin at least two dozen times. He’s incredible. 

“The one and only,” she says. “We think you and him would make the best first pair the Falcs have ever been able to put up.” 

Alexei chokes on air. “ _What?_ ” 

“We’ll have to make sure you click on the ice, obviously,” she says, graciously ignoring Alexei’s astonishment. “If it doesn’t work, that’s fine, we’ll try you with Thirdy or AJ. The point, Alexei, is that everyone in the franchise got a say in who we wanted, and we wanted you. We’re trying to build something here, and we’d like you to be part of that.”  

Alexei has got to be dreaming. “I. Uh. Thank you?” 

She laughs. “I’ll take it. Okay, we’ve got the flight information from your agent. Thirdy — that’s Randall Robinson — will be there to pick you up, and we’re coordinating with Aces management to get the rest of your stuff packed up and shipped out here. Ideally, you’re in practice tomorrow and in our game against the Islanders on Friday. Sound good?” 

Alexei must say something socially acceptable, because the phone call ends with Georgia still laughing kindly. He stares into space for a few minutes, and then he’s looking at a laptop where news of his trade is one of many updates stacked along the right side of the screen. Highlights from last night’s Blues/Blackhawks game cycle through the left side. His soulmate’s lying down, laptop propped on his stomach. Alexei can see the top of his toes behind the screen. 

His soulmate clicks into the story about him. It feels voyeuristic to read about his trade through his soulmate’s eyes, but the story doesn’t say much that Georgia hadn’t said — the Falcs need help on defense, and the best prospects from the upcoming draft are centers and wingers. It's a good trade. 

“Did you see this?” His soulmate asks. He angles the screen slightly, and Alexei realizes that he’s lying next to someone else. The other person is in the same position: Laptop on his stomach, legs stretched out along the bed. 

“It’s smart,” the other person says. The French accent seems familiar. “Remember their game against the Wings from a few weeks ago?” 

Alexei’s soulmate _tsk_ ’s in disgust. “Mashkov’s got his work cut out for him.” 

Alexei floods with warmth. His soulmate knows who he is. Not that Alexei’s his soulmate, obviously, but he knows Alexei’s name. 

The other guy makes a thoughtful noise. “The Schooners didn’t know what to do with him, and he plays too clean for the Aces.” 

Alexei bristles a little at that. The Aces aren’t dirty. Usually. 

“Think this means one of us’ll end up in Vegas?” 

Alexei’s heart just about stops, and he’s back in his bedroom. He might be hyperventilating. 

His soulmate is American. A few years younger than him. Plays hockey. Currently somewhere they speak what Alexei’s been thinking is French, but could definitely be the Québécois Alexei used to hear Loops and Friday throw around. Thinks he’s going to be at the top of the upcoming draft class, close friends with someone else who’ll be up there. 

His soulmate might be Kent Parson. 

It’s insane. Alexei knows that. He’s reaching. He’s reaching because he has to move to Providence in the next eight hours, and he wants something he can rely on, something to be constant. He’s got these couple tiny pieces of a giant puzzle. There’s no way his soulmate is Kent Parson. There are a million kids in every draft class who think they’ll be in the top few picks. It’s never who you think it is. 

But. Maybe. 

His phone pings again. 

_Ovechkin: East coast ))) I introduce to many Russians, will be best ))))_

Alexei smiles, calls Sava, and gets ready to put himself on a plane. 


	3. you and i, we're the same

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's stamp a disclaimer here: These boys are not perfect. Alexei's coming from a place of privilege and judges something he doesn't understand. Kent is raw edges and impulse held together by flagging willpower. They are harsh on themselves, and harsh on each other. It's a journey.
> 
> Trigger notes for this chapter: Nothing new. Lots of angst, though, and Kent's got the mindset of someone who was abused, so watch out for that.

**[KENT, 19]**

 

Kent spends his nineteenth birthday calling Jack Zimmermann.

_It’s funny, Zimms_ , he thinks as he tries to pull up Jack’s number again and his thumb slips. _Isn’t it funny?_ Your  _hands used to the be ones that shook._

Voicemail. 

Kent leaves what’s got to be his tenth message of the day and throws his phone across his room. It bounces against the padded headboard and falls onto the pillow where Kent laid awake for hours last night, staring at the ceiling, replaying minutes and hours and weeks from the last few months and trying to figure out where the tipping point was, and how he could have missed it, and how he’s supposed to live with himself.

Kent thought he had it under control. He thought _Jack_ had it under control. 

It’s been eight days since Kent was drafted by the Las Vegas Aces. First overall pick of the 2009 NHL Entry Draft. 

It’s been nine days since Jack Zimmermann’s agent formally withdrew him from the draft. 

It’s been ten days since Jack Zimmermann overdosed. Kent hasn’t gone ten days without talking to Jack since they were fifteen. 

His soulminute hits like an after-whistle check to the numbers. Kent had — not _forgotten_ that he has a soulmate, never that, but he’s been through every shade of anger and shame and worry and nerves in the last two weeks and he hasn’t had much time to think about literally anything other than Jack or hockey — so it’s unexpected, when he’s suddenly in his soulmate’s body and standing at the front of a church. 

There is a woman in a white dress getting ready to walk down the aisle. Towards him. That gorgeous blonde Kent’s seen a couple times. 

Um. 

The music changes. Everyone in the church stands. Kent’s soulmate nudges someone standing near him — another guy, wearing a very nice suit — with an elbow, and this other guy gives a blinding grin. The woman starts slowing gliding down the aisle, arm-in-arm with a beaming older gentleman. 

Kent’s soulmate’s head is full of so many overwhelmingly happy emotions that contrast so sharply to everything Kent’s feeling that he might throw up. It’s all warmth and light and love, and by the time the woman gets to the front of the church and takes hands with the man standing in front of Kent’s soulmate — thank _Christ_ — Kent is drowning. Someone starts saying things in Russian, and then Kent’s phone is ringing. 

_Zimms_ , says the screen. Kent trips over his feet getting the bed, nearly rejects the call accidentally, then finally manages to pick up. 

“Jack?” 

“Kent,” Bad Bob Zimmermann says. “It’s Bob.” 

“Bob,” Kent sighs. His heart is beating too fast. “Are you — is he — what’s happening?” 

“He’s recovering,” Bob says. He sounds as tired at Kent feels. “They weren’t sure, at first, if he’d. Be okay. But he’s doing better now.” 

Kent sits down on the bed like all of his bones have suddenly melted. “What. What happened? What did he say? Can I talk to him?” 

“Kent,” Bob says, gently. “It’s better for your career if you distance yourself from Jack as much as you can.” 

Kent chokes. “What?” 

“The drug rumors are already circulating,” Bob says. “They’ll extend to you eventually, if they haven’t already. You need to make everyone think that you and Jack weren’t close.” 

“That,” Kent says, and if he had any dignity or pride left at this point he’d probably be embarrassed that he’s crying on the phone with Bad Bob Zimmermann. “No, that doesn’t, that’s not — that’s not what happened.” 

“I know. But what matters here is image, Kent. You know that. Jack…Jack needs time to recover. And you need to keep going.” 

“That’s not fair,” Kent says, abruptly angry. Angry at Jack for not keeping it together, angry because Kent is supposed to be allowed to be happy that he’s getting his dream but now it’s, it’s _ruined_ by this, angry that Jack won’t pick up the phone but he’ll send his perfect father. “That’s not — bullshit. How am I even supposed to do that?” 

“Talk to your agent, and Aces management. They’ll want to minimize fallout as well. You’ll need to put out a statement that while you and Jack were teammates these past few years, you never really got along off the ice. He’s a great hockey player and you wish him a speedy recovery. That’s all.”  

The fight goes out of Kent like post-game adrenaline crash. “I can’t. I _can’t_.” 

“You can, you should, you will,” Bob says firmly. “It’s what’s best for both of you.” 

“Can I come visit?” Kent blurts. “Please. I don’t — I’ll be quiet about it. No one will know. I just, I have to see him, I have to tell him I’m sorry,  _please_.” 

“That’s not a good idea,” Bob says. “The press is everywhere up here, it’s all we can do to protect a small piece of Jack’s privacy. You’d only draw more attention. And Kent?” 

Kent chokes out some sort of noise. 

“Don’t call again,” Bob says. His voice is sad. “Jack doesn’t want to talk to you. I’m sorry, son.” 

Kent stares at the wall until Katie comes to get him for cake. Katie sucks at baking and they both know it, but they eat nearly the entire dense, too-salty, collapsed mess. They pretend the cake is fine. They pretend lots of things are fine.  

 

**[ALEXEI, 23]**  

Alexei turns twenty-three in Boston. They’ve got the Bruins tonight in the first of two, and Alexei’ll be scratched unless his soulminute happens before the puck drops. He’s jumpy on the ice during morning skate, enough so that Marty pulls him aside in the locker room. 

“Soulmate troubles?” Marty asks, pitching his voice so Timmo won’t overhear. 

Alexei sighs. Trades are inconvenient for a number of reasons, but this is the current top of his list — there’s nothing he’d love more than to never have to explain his soulmate situation to another team. “Soulminutes not always…good.”

He’s been telling himself since his last birthday that his soulmate is not Kent Parson, and with the way everything unfolded with Zimmermann and Parson just a few months later, he’s doubled down on that. He tries not to listen to the rumors, he knows that the press can twist anything, but Alexei can’t think of a reason Zimmermann would drop out of the draft except for drugs, and given how close Zimmermann and Parson were supposed to be, there’s no way Parson wasn’t doing drugs as well. 

Alexei refuses to think that the universe would match him with a drug addict. Maybe that’s arrogant of him, or unforgiving, or biased, but Alexei’s dedicated his body to sport since literally before he can remember. He’ll have a few drinks when he’s out with his team, or over holidays, and a cup of vodka with dinner never hurt anyone, but Alexei’s always drawn a firm line at shit that could actually derail his career. 

So Kent Parson _can’t_ be Alexei’s soulmate. Especially not after he went first in the draft (to Vegas, the team Alexei might still be a part of if they hadn’t wanted Parson more), and, by all accounts, lost his damn mind partying. He’s been on the cover of every tabloid Alexei passes while checking out at the grocery store, and that’s not — Alexei is quiet. Private. He loves fans, don’t get him wrong, but he values his privacy and relative anonymity when he’s out and about. Kent Parson does not. 

Parson also, apparently, has no qualms whatsoever about sleeping with people who aren’t his soulmate. There are more _My Wild Night (and Morning!!) with Kent Parson_  stories printed in the first six months after the draft than Alexei cares to think about. Alexei’s not a virgin — a few fumbling nights with Sabina when they were teenagers so they could “figure out the mechanics,” as she put it, and then a couple visits to a discreet bar back in Seattle that catered to people who hadn’t found their soulmates yet had seen to that — but he at least has the good sense and common decency to keep it under wraps. 

And, again. Alexei knows that not everything you read is true. He tries to take it all with a grain of salt. But then Parson gives an interview where he claims that he and Zimmermann weren’t really all that close in the Q, and then Bad Bob Zimmermann  _confirms_ it, and that’s how Alexei knows for sure. Alexei’s been in his soulmate’s head, he knows how his soulmate feels about the guy Alexei’d seen him with. Alexei’d been assuming that the other guy was Zimmermann, even if Alexei only saw his face through a helmet visor for, like, thirty seconds three years ago, but Alexei’s soulmate cares about that guy on a deep, foundational level. If Parson doesn’t care about Zimmermann, Parson can’t be Alexei’s soulmate.

Katie is a common American name. There are probably dozens of competitive hockey players with sisters named Katie. 

Alexei made a series of logical jumps about his soulmate based on the tidbits of information he had, and all of those jumps were wrong. It happens. It’s never who you think it is. 

Marty nods, scratching at his beard. “Are you close to figuring out who she is, at least? She American?” 

“Not sure,” Alexei says, ignoring the small voice in his head asking if it’d be a good idea to come out to Marty. Marty’s great, but Alexei…Alexei wants to make sure this trade is going to stick before he adds to the list of people who could probably destroy his career with a stray word. “Minutes are confusing.” 

“You should talk to Gabby sometime,” Marty says. “She says every minute of hers up until two years ago was just another generic hockey practice. Still not sure if she was more relieved or frustrated by the time I was finally at a game, with guys wearing jerseys she could recognize.” 

Alexei hums something noncommittal, and then he’s in his soulmate’s head. 

His soulmate is running. Out for a run, more precisely, jogging through a city that looks vaguely familiar and is definitely warmer than Boston. The cadence of his feet against the pavement is soothing, the in-in-out of his breath is steady, and it would be relaxing if his soulmate wasn’t so obviously trying to drown out the lonely-guilt-helpless-scared that’s snarling in the back of his mind. 

His soulmate picks up the pace, pushing until Alexei’s calves burn, and he knows he’s almost out of time. He tries to memorize names of buildings his soulmate passes, but none of them are unique — Marriott, Max & Erma’s, Chase, Nordstrom’s. 

The minute ends, and Alexei is no closer to finding his soulmate than he was before. No closer to his soulmate, who is still in so, so much pain. 

He blinks at Marty, who winces sympathetically. “I’ll go tell the coaches that you don’t need to scratch.” 

 

**[KENT, 20]**

Kent’s never really been into the idea of birthday parties. Growing up, they didn’t have much money to make a big deal out of birthdays, and since families and friends already gathered on the Fourth of July, it seemed selfish to ask people to celebrate Kent instead. 

On Kent’s twentieth birthday, he throws the biggest fucking party he can manage. 

Torts agrees to let Kent use his house for it (so long as Kent pays for a cleaning service), because Torts and his family always go back to Canada during the off-season and Kent still lives in an apartment where residents are likely to lodge noise pollution complaints and PR doesn’t deserve to deal with that. PR’s got their work cut out for them already, what with the absolute shitshow that was the end of their miserable excuse for a playoff run. 

So anyways, Kent invites his frustrated, depressed team and all their soulmates and friends and families to Torts’ house for a Parser’s-birthday-slash-American-Independence-Day party. He gets it catered. He hires two bartenders. He wheedles Swoops into coming with him to buy the type of fireworks that are definitely illegal to set off in someone’s backyard. He pays Peaches’ high-school-age daughters and Barley’s college-age son to look after the younger kids at Barley’s house, just down the street. 

And now, nearing dusk on his birthday, surrounded by his teammates (who almost never look at him like he might shatter into pieces under a slight wind anymore) and their loved ones (Katie couldn’t come, it’s her last summer before college and she wanted to go to gallivanting through Europe so Kent used part of his Schedule A bonus to send her and their Aunt Helen over there for six weeks) and with bass from a nearby speaker pounding through him like a heartbeat (which is good, he’s not sure if his heart is beating sometimes), he can almost pretend that he hasn’t been hoping for a text from Jack all day. 

Last year would’ve been too soon, Kent gets that now. He and Jack were too wrapped up in each other. A little time, a little distance, a little room to breathe — Jack is entitled to that. It’s been over a fucking year, though. It’s been over a year and Kent knows that Jack is out in the world again, knows he’s coaching fucking peewee or what-the-fuck ever. It’s not too much to ask for a single happy birthday message. 

Kent sent one to Jack, on Jack’s birthday. 

Kent is debating whether he wants another beer more than he wants to never leave this patch of grass when he blinks and is looking at a very different sky. 

It’s daytime where his soulmate is. Probably back in Russia, then. Best he can tell, his soulmate is out hiking. There’s a massive dog who’s got to be at least 50% wolf bounding along a trail in front of him, the air is cool and crisp in his lungs, his legs burn pleasantly.

Idly, because Kent’s not drunk-drunk but the day-drinking did start, like, six hours ago, Kent thinks about putting together a list of all the Russian-born NHLers and figuring out which of them are back in Russia right now. It wouldn’t be hard, basically everyone except the super old guys is at least a little active on social media. He’s way overdue for trying to figure out who is soulmate is. He probably has enough data to figure it out, or at least to make a good guess. 

But here’s the thing. Kent is starting to realize that he’s really, really bad for the people who get close to him. He pushes too hard, he has trouble with boundaries, he doesn’t know when to stop. There’s a voice in Kent’s head now that sounds an awful lot like Jack Zimmermann, and when that voice whispers, _Maybe your soulmate is better off without you_ , it’s getting harder for Kent to disagree. He burns people up — Jack, his mom, his dad. 

Kent’s soulmate is good. He is good, and kind, and steady. He cares, he offers, he welcomes. He doesn’t feel the weight that Kent feels. 

Kent would destroy a person like that. Besides, wouldn’t his soulmatch show him something actually _useful_ for finding the guy, if Kent was meant to find him? Hell, maybe the match is unrequited and that's why Kent never sees anything helpful. 

“Parser!” Swoops throws himself into the grass at Kent’s side, all elbows and too warm. “Whatcha doing?”  

“Trying to decide if I’m a terrible human being,” Kent says plainly. 

Swoops pauses, and it’s a big theatrical thing. “I’m sorry, what? Did you just — was that actual honesty? From Kent Parson?” 

“Shut up, Jeffrey.” 

Swoops waves his hands defensively. “No, sorry, I just — Parse, you know you’ve always got Media Face on these days. Even when it’s just the guys.” 

“Hockey’s the only thing I’m good at,” Kent says. “And I couldn’t even get that right this year.” 

“Are we having the same conversation?” 

"You’d tell me if they were going to trade me, right?” 

Swoops snorts some of whatever he’s drinking through his nose at that and splutters for a good minute. “Are you out of your damn mind?” 

“I was a PR nightmare until midway through the season. Even after I got my act together, the press is always around just, like, waiting for me to fuck up again. I was supposed to be the face of the franchise. Well. Zimmermann was supposed to be the face of the franchise. Instead, they — you — got me.” 

“Did you miss the part where you won the fucking Calder?” 

_Wouldn’t have won it if Jack had been in the league_ , Kent doesn’t say. “Calder doesn’t mean anything. Hockey is a team sport.” 

“‘Calder doesn’t mean anything,’” Swoops repeats. “Jesus. You _are_. You are out of your mind.” 

Kent doesn’t say anything back. Fireworks should be starting soon. They sit next to each other in silence, and not the comfortable kind. 

“Parse,” Swoops says finally, slowly. “Have you ever thought about seeing a therapist?” 

(Kent has had this conversation with his mom a hundred times. Offering to get her help. Trying to make her understand that needing help doesn’t make her weak. Begging her to try. 

Kent doesn’t need a therapist. Kent already knows what a therapist is going to tell him. He knows he’s a disaster. 

But Kent also knows this: Sometimes people ask you to get help because _they_ need you to get help. Because they're scared for you, and they need you to be okay. Sometimes, people ask you to get help because they love you.)

Kent’s not sure he can be fixed. But for Swoops, maybe, and for Katie, and for his soulmate, he supposes he can try.

 

**[ALEXEI, 24]**

He is sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair across a table from three people, all of whom are staring at his soulmate with serious looks on their faces. It’s cold in here; chill from the concrete floor seeps in through the bottoms of his soulmate’s shoes. 

Alexei’s soulmate’s head spins with worry-fear-frustration as he says, “Would you mind repeating the question?” 

“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Asks one of the others, a woman with a severe ponytail and a pinched mouth. 

Alexei’s soulmate rubs his face with his hands and lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “Honestly? Kinda, yeah.” 

“Sure,” says the woman drily. “Your father’s upcoming parole hearing must be very inconvenient for you.” 

What? _What?_ His soulmate’s father is in jail? 

One of the others is chiding the woman, but there’s something boiling under his soulmate’s skin now. “It _is_ inconvenient,” he snaps. "I had to take two days off work for this, and all I have to tell you is what I already told you on the phone. My father wasn’t an armed criminal when I knew him, but he was an abusive asshole more interested in knocking me and my mom around than he was in holding down a steady job. I don’t want him released, I won’t be part of his ’support system’ if you’re dumb enough to let him out, and I’m pretty damn sure that you’d just be locking him up again in six months anyway.” His soulmate stands up sharply, sending the chair squeaking back across the floor. “I’m leaving.” 

“We’re not done here,” says the woman. 

“ _I’m_ done here,” he retorts, striding to the door. 

The woman shouts after him, “Mr. Parson!” and Alexei — 

Parson. Kent Parson. 

No denying it now. 

He calls Sabina. 

“Alyosha,” she answers, groggy. “It is four in the morning. Are you dying?” 

“Kent Parson is my soulmate,” he says in a rush, and Sabina’s gasp is so sharp that he can practically feel it. 

“Fuck,” she says quietly. There’s some rustling on her end of the line, and he hears her telling Demyan to go back to sleep. “I thought you were sure it wasn’t him?” 

“I was. I thought I was,” he says miserably. “Sabina, he’s just — he’s so —.” 

“You don’t actually know anything about him,” she cuts him off. “You know the garbage you read online.” 

“I’ve played against him,” Alexei protests, and it’s true. The Aces and the Falconers are in different conferences and only come up against each other once or twice a season, but Alexei’s been on the ice with Parson. It’s only been mildly paralyzing. 

“You’ve said yourself that who you are on the ice isn’t the same person as who you are off it. You should talk to Sava.” 

Alexei’s shaking his head before she’s even said Sava’s name. “I can’t ask Sava for personal information about the man who’s probably going to be his next team captain.” 

“You’d be asking about him as your soulmate, not as a hockey rival.” 

She makes a frustrated sound. “So you’re, what? Going to pretend that you still don’t know who your soulmate is? Hope it changes? Ignore Parson forever?” 

“No. No, I just…” Alexei sits down, wishing for the millionth time that he had a dog. “I need to learn more about him. I need to know what’s true and what isn’t.” 

“So talk to Sava.” 

“He can’t know,” Alexei blurts, something dawning on him in a slow creep of horror. “If I talk to Sava, he’ll tell Parson, and then. You’ve seen what he’s like in the press. He’s everywhere. I can’t — I can’t live like that, Sabina. They’ll. I’ll never be able to come back to Russia, if everyone knows.” 

“You don’t know that he’d want to go public with the match,” she reasons. “He’s a professional hockey player, too. It’s his career on the line, just like yours.” 

“It’s too risky,” he says. “It’s. I need time to think.” 

“It’s not fair to lie to him.” 

“It’s not lying. I’m being cautious.” Alexei stands and starts pacing. “Besides, the Aces are probably going to make a deep playoff run.” 

He can practically hear Sabina’s frustration. “So?” 

“So he’ll be busy. He wouldn’t want the distraction.” 

“Did that sound like bullshit to you, even as you were saying it?” 

“I’ll try talking to him in the off-season,” Alexei decides. “Maybe. He had that stupid birthday party last year, maybe I can get Sava to bring me as his plus-one this time.” 

“You’re an idiot,” Sabina says. “I’m going back to bed.” 

  

**[KENT, 21]**

They ask him what he wants to do for his Cup Day, and his brain short-circuits. 

Most guys, he knows, take the Cup home. Rochester hasn’t been home in nearly a decade, Buffalo hasn’t been home in five years. He always thought that if he ever won the Cup, he’d take it to Montreal: Fly his mom and Katie and Aunt Helen up to the Zimmermann place, spend a lazy summer day playing shinny with all the neighborhood kids and a heavy summer night doing the dirtiest things Jack would let him get away with while the Cup was in the room. 

He never updated the plan, after Jack. 

Jack hasn’t spoken to him in two years. 

It’s fine. Kent’s fine. Kent has a therapist now whom he actually likes, and Indira’s helping him understand that Kent isn’t responsible for anyone else’s actions. Jack doesn’t want to talk to him? Fine. Kent’ll just talk to the Stanley Cup that he _captained his team to winning_. 

He tells them that he wants the Cup in Vegas on his birthday, and he wants to take it to a Little Aces practice. Marketing, predictably, loses their collective shit planning an adorable and highly-publicized event. More of the guys are still around the city than usual this year, what with all the celebrations, so it turns into this big shindig with half the adult Aces scrimmaging the whole mass of Little Aces. Peaches even brought Alexei Mashkov, which Kent privately thought was weird and a little intrusive until he remember that Mashkov was actually an Ace before Kent and knows most of the guys. He seems nice enough when it’s not literally his job to shut Kent down during a game, at any rate, so Kent eventually just lets him and Peaches teach the mini d-men whatever it is they’re teaching. Katie, who’s staying with Kent over the summer while their mother is in inpatient treatment, is alternating helping the littlest ones with stick handling and teasing Vandal, who’s making a valiant effort at not flirting back because he’s the best rookie ever. They bring the Cup out onto the ice toward the end of practice and take about a million pictures.

All in all, it’s a pretty fucking awesome day, until the kids have all trickled back to their parents and the other Aces (and Katie, the traitor) have all dispersed for dinner or the next party or whatever, and Kent’s left doing press. Most of the regular journalists are pretty well trained at this point (Claude and Gina in PR are ruthless and Kent loves them for it), but there are a bunch of extras here since it’s a Cup Day. He gets all the normal questions — speculation about next season, their draft pickups, how summer training’s going — and then someone asks if he’s had his soulminute yet today. 

It’s invasive and rude, not to mention pointless. Everyone knows that Kent doesn’t talk about his soulmate in public. He’s the king of not commenting when it comes to this. But he’s thinking about Jack (Kent is fine) and about winning the Stanley Cup at 20. He’s thinking about what he’s sacrificed for hockey. He’s thinking about the Aces’ GM telling him, quietly but in no uncertain terms, that same-sex soulmatches aren’t welcome in this franchise when Kent tried to broach the topic hypothetically. He’s thinking that he’s tired, and that he shouldn’t be this tired, it’s his twenty-first birthday, 

and then he’s watching himself. His soulmate is in the passenger seat of a car, watching Kent on PR’s _Live with LVA_ feed on a cell phone, and Kent is watching himself not answer the question. His soulmate’s head is full of — full of — 

tentative-fond-indulgent-caution-admiration? What? 

Kent-on-screen continues not to answer, and Kent-in-his-soulmate’s-brain is thinking that he could, right now, tell his soulmate _it’s me, I’m here, I know you’re watching, please call_ and about the Aces’ GM and about what he did to Jack and how his soulmate deserves better than Kent and it’s this whole minute of Kent-in-his-soulmate’s-brain thinking _say something, you idiot_ and Kent-on-screen staring off dazedly into space and uncomfortable off-screen laughter from the press and Kent can _feel_ it, when his soulmate realizes that this is Kent’s soulminute, and his head goes to panic-worry-red-alert and he shuts his eyes and it is overwhelming, complete rejection and Kent is dizzy when he lands back in his own head. 

He blinks. His soulmate doesn’t want to be found. His soulmate saw that Kent was having his soulminute and deliberately shut his eyes, to keep Kent from finding out anything about him. 

“Kent?” Prompts one of the reporters. It’s one of the ones Kent doesn’t mind, actually. “Are you okay?” 

No. He’s not. He’s not even remotely close to okay, actually. 

He pulls a grin and a wink out of somewhere. “Sorry about that, but you know me — gotta keep you on your toes by doing things like having my soulminute live on TV.” 

The asshole who’d asked about his soulminute in the first place lights up like the Jumbotron and shoves his mic closer to Kent’s face. “And? What happened? What did you see?” 

Kent is tired. He’s thrilled to have won the Stanley Cup, but playing hockey until June makes for a really fucking long season. He’s probably twenty-five pounds under what’s a healthy weight for him. His mom fought him on every step of getting admitted to this inpatient program and will probably never forgive him. His dad is out on parole. Management wants Kent’s take on five-, ten-, and twenty-year development plans for the franchise. Jack hates him. 

Kent is already fighting a lot of battles. This doesn’t feel like one he stands a chance of winning. 

Kent says, “She was reading one of my favorite books.  I think we’re going to get along great.” 

It’s not until much later, when he’s put the Cup and the Cup keeper and Katie and Aunt Helen to bed in various guest rooms, that he lets himself think about what happened. What he can’t figure out is why his soulmate reacted like that to knowing Kent was having his minute. The only way it’d make sense for his soulmate to have responded that way is — 

Shit. 

His soulmate knows who Kent is. His soulmate knows that he’s matched with Kent Parson, and his soulmate doesn't want Kent to know who he is.

His soulmate is in the NHL, Kent is 98% sure. Maybe that's it? Maybe his soulmate is worried that Kent would want to, like,  _come out_ or something insane like that? Kent isn't ashamed of being gay, but he doesn't want to lose hockey over that identity. He's not ready for that. Plus, the Aces' GM is a homophobic asshole. 

Although. Kent just won them a fucking Cup. They're not going to trade him or anything. Kent would've at least liked to have the  _option_. And Kent's soulmate seems brave, seems comfortable with who he is, so wouldn't he...? 

Oh. 

Maybe it has nothing to do with the NHL. Maybe it's just about  _Kent_. 

Kent has several almost-panic attacks in short succession. He's pretty good at talking himself out of them these days (Indira's a miracle worker), but by the time he's actually calmed down, he can string together this whole series of potential soulminutes that showcase Kent at his very, very worst. Kent's dad, Jack, partying in the Q, the time he yelled at his mom, Jack, the time Katie was crying and Kent told her to grow up. Framed like that? Kent can't blame his soulmate.  _Kent_ wouldn't even want to be Kent's soulmate. 

But. It's just.

He thought that his _soulmate_  would be able to look past that. Would want to give Kent a chance, maybe. Isn’t that the whole point of a soulmate? 

Part of him knows his reaction isn’t logical. He’d semi-decided, at some point in the last two years, not to try to find his soulmate. Decided to protect him from Hurricane Parson. He can’t be mad. It shouldn't hurt that his soulmate hasn’t reached out, when Kent hasn’t been reaching back. 

But he _is_ mad. And it _does_ hurt.

How long has his soulmate known? 

  

 

**[ALEXEI, 24 + 147 DAYS]**

“Alyosha.” 

“You can’t tell him,” Alexei croaks. He was silent on the drive back to Sava’s place, silent through dinner with Sava’s family, silent as he went back to the guest room and packed up his things for his flight back to Russia tomorrow. This is the first thing he’s said, he thinks, since he traded farewells with the Little Aces and the adult Aces. His voice feels disconnected from the rest of him. 

“He’s a good man,” Sava says. He’s leaning against the door frame, watching Alexei with something far too close to pity in his eyes. “He didn’t know you were…he never would’ve been that cruel.” 

“Okay. Fine. You can’t tell him.” 

“ _Alexei_.” 

“What?” Alexei demands. “If he’s a good man, like you say, it’ll hurt him to know. There’s no point. He’s happy now.” 

Sava makes a noise in the back of his throat that doesn’t sound like agreement, but he doesn’t say anything else. He leaves Alexei sitting in the dark. 

Alexei never even thought about the possibility that his soulmatch might be unrequited. 


	4. you were not the same after that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!! I asked several of you in comments if you'd prefer to wait longer for one massive final chapter, or get a shorter chapter sooner and then have to wait for the last chapter, and you said shorter sooner so HERE IT IS and maybe RUN AROUND A LITTLE BIT before you buckle in to read this because WE ARE DEEP IN THE ANGST SEA and EVERYTHING IS AWFUL WHY AM I DOING THIS
> 
> Chapter count took a bump up to 5, which will ACTUALLY be the last chapter. Should be up within a week??
> 
> Also: Quick note that Alexei sleeps with a non-Kent human in this chapter. Skip around if you need to, during Alexei's 27th. Someone also has a panic attack in Alexei's 27th. Neither is described graphically, but know your limits. 
> 
> Also: When you recognize lines, that's because part of this chapter coincides with the comic's Sophomore Year #9. All credit to Ngozi.

**[ALEXEI, 25]**

  

Alexei spends the next eight months looking up every terrible story about Kent Parson he can find. 

It’s not fair to Parson, he knows, and half the things he’s reading probably aren’t true. But he’s trying, with increasing desperation as his birthday draws closer, to get over a man he didn’t even have a thing for until he knew he _couldn’t_ have a thing for him, and the Deadspin archives seem like the place to go for that sort of intel. 

The plan backfires when Alexei ends up getting just as charmed as most of the press seems to have become. 

Parson was, everyone agrees, an unmitigated nightmare for the first several months of his career. He got kicked out of bars and casinos, he racked up more penalty minutes than most enforcers get in a full season, he even got arrested once for being an intoxicated minor (the charge was dropped, quietly). Parson himself admits that he didn't get off to a good start, and the press about him from that time is brutal. Too brutal, really, given that Kent was a 19-year-old kid and he looks so goddamn _broken_ in interviews from back then. They were on him about being a disappointment, being overrated, being the reason Zimmermann tried to kill himself (Alexei would like to have some very strong words with several reporters about this messaging), letting the whole Vegas franchise down, and you could see it eating and eating at Parson until there was something wild and empty in his eyes. 

But a few months in, that started to change. In bits and pieces, Parson's behavior settled. He was still seen out with the team having a good time, but he went home alone. He stopped fighting on the ice and started being too fast for anyone to catch. It wasn't a straight linear progression and there were still a couple big missteps every now and then, but by the middle of his sophomore year, almost no one could fault Aces' management for giving him the C. 

And then he led his team to win the Stanley Cup, and he did it with an ironclad media-friendly smile that hasn't wavered since. 

Alexei was trying to find reasons to _dislike_ the guy, not reasons to be more impressed. It doesn't help that Sava has started some sort of "Pro-Kent Parson" campaign that involves sending Alexei little videos every few days of Parson doing the Captain thing or hanging out with the guys after practice or goofing around or, once, taking a nap at someone's house and looking less guarded than Alexei's ever seen him. Alexei has realized that his first impression of Parson was completely wrong, okay, that's not the problem. The problem is that while Parson is Alexei's soulmate, Alexei is not _Parson's_ soulmate, and Parson's been through enough. He doesn't need to live with the knowledge that he's inadvertently breaking Alexei's heart. 

+++

Alexei spends the entirety of his twenty-fifth birthday drunk. His match is unrequited and he _knows_ , so he probably won’t another soulminute ever again, and he very, very much doesn’t want to spend the day thinking about that absence. There’s also the off-chance that he’ll still have soulminutes for a few years while the match fully fizzles out, and for all he knows Parson’s found his true soulmate by now and Alexei’ll end up watching them be disgustingly in love. He doesn't think this is the case (one of Sava's videos would've captured the happy couple, surely), but he doesn't feel like taking the chance. 

He schedules a vacation day for his birthday months in advance. The Falcs are at home and don’t have a game for another two days, luckily, so he barely feels guilty about it. He wakes up, starts drinking, and keeps drinking. Snowy, the only one of Alexei’s teammates whom Alexei’s talked to about the situation — and even then not in detail, just that his soulmatch is unrequited and this is his first birthday since that became clear — made him a chart mapping Alexei’s body mass and metabolism against the maximum number of drinks he should have per hour to avoid tipping into alcohol poisoning. Alexei even follows the chart, for a little bit. Rookie goalies are adorable, after all, and Snowy’d looked at him with big, concerned eyes. 

So he drinks, and he cries a little, and he drinks some more while watching HGTV, and he calls Sabina and his parents and he cries and he drinks, and when he wakes up it’s the next day and he doesn’t remember a single thing that happened after two in the afternoon.  

Alexei calls this a success, and gets himself and his hangover ready for practice. 

  

**[KENT, 22]**

Kent doesn’t have a soulminute on his twenty-second birthday. 

It’s not the worst day of his life, but it’s pretty close. 

Things can go wrong with soulmatches. No one really understands where the matches come from, or what goes into matching one soul to another, or how things can go wrong, but everyone knows that it happens. Your match can be unrequited, and you find out that your soulmate already has a soulmate that isn’t you. Your soulmate could be minute-blind, and you show up on their doorway convinced they’re your soulmate but they’ve never seen anything from you. You can be unmatched, which…Kent shudders. Imagine just waiting on your birthday, every year, for years, thinking that maybe this year you’ll have a soulminute. Maybe you’re hoping that you’re just minute-blind, but a soulmate never shows up and you never have a soulminute. The universe thinks you’re better off alone. 

If one person pulls away from the match hard enough, the other person stops having soulminutes. It happens. Match psychologists say it’s supposed to protect the person who’s being pulled away from; the match stops showing them what they can’t have. 

Kent hurt his soulmate badly enough with his lie that he pulled away. Kent forced his own match to go unrequited. And there's really no way he can undo it without some sort of press release announcing that his soulmate is actually male, which'll probably get him fired or traded. 

Great. 

(Indira says Kent isn’t responsible for anyone’s actions besides his own. Kent knows that this is not true.)

 

**[KENT, 22 + 73 DAYS]**

“That’s it, then,” Swoops says, staring at the TV.  

“Fucking blows,” Vandal half-slurs. He finishes his beer and reaches for another. No one bothers to stop him. Why should they? It’s not like they have hockey to play. 

A lockout. A fucking lockout. 

Everyone saw it coming. This has been creeping closer since the last lockout, all signs pointed to this happening, it just…Kent didn’t really believe it. Didn’t want to believe it. And now he’s sitting at his kitchen table surrounded by his best friend, his rookie, and his new rookie, looking at a text from Sidney Crosby. 

“Will you go to to New York?” Swoops asks quietly, unknowingly echoing Sid’s text. “To negotiate?” 

Kent clears his throat. “Yeah. Probably. Sid wants me there.” 

Swoops nods, still in a daze. “Good. That’s good. Jesus, Parse, I hope you guys can fix this.” 

What Kent _wants_ to do is whine about how they’d inherited a broken system and all they’d be able to do is patch it up enough to kick the can further down the road. But he’s still their captain, even if there’s no hockey, so instead he says, “We will. But I don’t know if we’ll be able to do it in time to save the season. You should all think about options.”  

“Options for  _what_?” Vandal croaks. 

“Playing overseas, maybe. Going back to school,” he adds, directing the last part at Benny. 

Their baby goalie, picked up after his sophomore year at the University of Michigan, shakes his head. “Semester already started. Probably a no-go.”

“Talk to your agent,” Kent says. "I’ll be talking to management, we’ll probably do a joint statement trying to distance the franchise from this shitshow. Everyone’s just going to be trying to minimize fallout. All you can do right now is take care of yourselves.” 

(Kent, in this moment, hears Bad Bob Zimmermann’s words from three years ago coming out of his mouth. He thinks, perhaps for the first time, that maybe Bob wasn’t trying to hurt him back then.)

So, the season is fucked. Kent’s soulmate situation? Fucked. His dad? Dodging his parole officer somewhere in New England, the last Kent heard, so, fucked. More days than not, Kent’s not thrilled with being Kent Parson.  

But Katie’s happily chugging through pre-law classes at NYU. Kent’s mom has a therapist and a support group and a medication schedule that seems to be working. Kent has teammates —friends — who trust him and seem to genuinely enjoy spending time with him outside of practice, even if it’s just grocery shopping with Vandal or reading quietly in the same room as Benny. 

Kent’s still pretty much a disaster, and there are parts of his life that are fucked to such a degree that they probably can’t be un-fucked. But that doesn’t mean that _Kent_ is fucked, and that feels like a goddamn revelation. 

(Plus, says the voice in his head that still, still sounds like Jack after all these years: New York is just a hour-long flight from Boston, and Boston's basically right down the road from Jack's school. Kent's grown up. He's sure Jack's grown up. Maybe it's worth a visit.)

  

**[ALEXEI, 26]**  

The season, when it starts again, is chaotic. Alexei, biding his time on a KHL team, got a call on a Thursday that he needed to be in Philly for a game on Saturday, and the pace hasn’t really slowed down from there. The League’s trying to fit as many games as they can into the months they have left, the Falcs are trying to re-find their joint playing styles after nearly twelve weeks scattered across the globe, and Alexei’s using the demanding schedule as a convenient excuse not to deal with his soulmate situation. 

There are support groups for people with unrequited matches. There are dating apps exclusively for people who aren’t looking for their soulmate. There are ways to cope, to move on. Those methods, Alexei thinks, are designed for people who don’t run in the same professional circles as their unrequited match. For people who haven’t had to see their unrequited match’s face every time they’re looking for an update on the lockout (and what, are Parson and Sidney Crosby  _friends_ now?). Alexei would happily move on, but Kent Parson insists on being fucking everywhere Alexei looks. 

And just in case the situation wasn’t shitty enough, Alexei’s apparently still having soulminutes. He thought about using the Get Drunk, Stay Drunk method again this year, but the Falcs have a game and he was hoping that the match would be nullified enough by now that the minute would at least be dimmer and less intense, like the internet says, but nope. This one wakes him up from a dead sleep, which is massively unfair on, like, six different levels including that this is pre-game nap time. He’s going to be exhausted. 

Not as exhausted as Parson, though, apparently. It’s the first thing Alexei picks up on, after the disorientation of suddenly being awake and in someone else’s brain and knowing _whose_ brain he’s in for a change. Parson is standing at the side of the ice, watching some of his teammates run a drill, and while it’s objectively fascinating to process hockey the way Kent Parson processes hockey, he’s so bone-tired that it’s nearly physically painful. 

The drill finishes in a flurry of snow and several guys, including Sava and Torts, glide over in Parson’s direction. Parson’s heart, tired as he is, swells with pride in his team, and it’s infectious. Alexei was on this team, once. These guys used to be _his_ guys, too. 

He still wants Parson to be an asshole. He wants him to be arrogant, to be rude and condescending. It would be easier for Alexei to cope, if it was easier to dislike Kent Parson. Instead, he has to sit in Parson’s head while he gives direct, constructive, demanding-but-fair feedback. One of the younger guys Alexei doesn’t recognize gets a compliment and he _glows_ with it. Barley gets critiqued, and Alexei remembers Peter Barlen well enough to know that he wouldn’t take it if he didn’t respect the person talking to him. 

Sava told Alexei, once, when he was still sending all those videos and before Alexei flat-out begged him to stop, that Parson was the best captain he'd ever played under. Alexei thinks he gets it, now. 

Parson's teammates go reset to run the drill again, and Parson turns toward the bench. Manon, an assistant coach Alexei remembers, shows him something on a clipboard. "Well?" 

Parson glances at the paper and rubs his eyes. "It'll work. I think. He lost more speed than I'd hoped, but it could be worse. Tracker should be fast enough to compensate." 

Manon nods. "I'll talk to Harlan. I think the Raptors are on the road, but we should be able to have him here for Monday's practice."  

The Raptors are the Aces' AHL affiliate team. Parson's advising on bringing kids up from the AHL now? 

Manon scribbles on the clipboard, then hands Parson his phone. "Been ringing in the locker room for the last hour." 

Parson stares at her. "Team policy? No phones during practice?" 

"When Sidney Crosby calls you multiple times in a row three weeks after a lockout ends, you pick up the phone, Parson," Manon says drily, and Alexei can taste the anxiety that blooms in Parson's mouth. 

Alexei's bedroom is startlingly dark and quiet when he blinks back into himself. Now not only is he attracted to Parson's hockey and his leadership and his handling of the media, he's back to being _worried_ about the guy like he was when they were kids. He wants to make Parson take a few days off and sit on a couch wrapped in a blanket and drinking soup. 

Fuck it. Alexei has to move on. This isn't healthy. 

 

**[KENT, 23]**

Kent doesn’t have a soulminute on his twenty-third birthday. He was hopeful in the days leading up to it, because he’s a fucking idiot, but he’s not _actually_ an idiot, so he made a plan. 

“You’re insane,” Swoops says, watching the ball of black and white fur dart around Kent’s floor. “Do you know anything about keeping a cat alive?” 

Kent scowls at him. “I have the internet. I have a vet. I have a neighbor with three cats.” 

“What you _have_ is a history of impulsive decision-making that comes back to bite you in the ass. Potentially literally, in this case.” 

Kent scowls deeper, finding himself getting angry. “She’s alive. She’s a living creature, and I’m responsible for her. I wouldn’t fuck around with that.” 

“What’re you going to do when we travel?” 

“I’ve already interviewed six UNLV students who can house- and cat-sit, and I’ve approved three of them pending meet-and-greets,” Kent says promptly. “I’m not actually a moron, you know.” 

“Dads, stop fighting,” Benny whines. “Come help me lure her out from under the couch.” 

  

**[KENT, 23 + 108 DAYS]**

The long-short-short whistle cuts across some really bizarre passing drill Fracker’s got them running through. Kent normally doesn’t love getting called to the bench in the middle of working on something, but this shit is totally impractical (not to mention frustrating, because Peaches still isn’t reacting fast enough to pick up the puck), so he welcomes the interruption. 

There’s a girl at the bench.

There’s a woman or two at the bench normally, to be fair. Chelsea and Renee, two of the trainers, show up a lot to keep an eye on the injured guys and watch for guys who are hiding injuries. Manon, one of the ACs. Gina’ll be around shooting behind-the-scenes stuff sometimes. Kent is, by and large, a huge fan of the Aces women: They are formidable, crazy competent, and don’t put up with any of the guys’ shit. They stand at the bench like they’re meant to be there. 

This girl is standing at the bench like she’s not sure she’s in the right place, and having 20-some big guys in pads skating at her doesn’t seem to be helping the situation. 

“Helmets off,” Fracker calls, and there’s the normal shuffling and unclicking as they comply. The girl focuses on each of them for half a second as they shake out sweaty hair. Benny drops his stick, because he’s hopeless the second he’s out of the net. “This is Caroline. Caroline, tell them what you told me. Guys, be nice.” 

“Um, thanks. Hi? Hi,” she says. “I, uh, well. See, it’s — okay.” 

Something clatters loudly to Kent’s left, and he looks over to see Benny picking his helmet and stick up off the ice. Kent raises an eyebrow at him; Benny’s a klutz as soon as he’s out of the crease, sure, but even he can usually hold onto stuff when he’s standing still. Vandal coughs  _"Sieve"_  into his glove, and Benny winks at Kent as the rest of the guys crack up. Caroline looks relieved at the break in tension. 

Benny’s a good kid. 

“I think one of you is my soulmate,” Caroline says in a rush when they all turn back to her, and _that_ sure quiets down the last of the laughter. “Yeah. I, um, I’m in town for my friend’s bachelorette party, and my birthday was was two days ago, and I had a soulminute right during what I’m pretty sure was your game against the Sharks?” 

There’s a totally different kind of tension in the air now. Kent mentally runs the roster, crossing off the guys who already know their soulmates, or guys like Kosov who haven’t met their soulmates yet, but know they’re Bulgarian or something. Caroline’s definitely American, probably from the Midwest going by the flatness of her vowels. 

“Yeah, I, um, I saw you on the ice,” she continues, pointing right at Kent. “Well, I saw your jersey, you were right next to me — him — so that was helpful.” 

There’s a pregnant moment when everyone does the same math Kent’s doing in his head. Kent can technically play on two of their four lines, and the PP/PK teams shift around a little, but if Caroline’s soulmate was on the ice at the same time as Kent? Chances are that he’s on first line, or in the first or second d-pair. That cuts the list to Mundy, Vandal, or Swoops. It always sounds like Vandal’s soulmate is at least a couple years younger than him, and Mundy is a fucking enigma, but Swoops…

Kent can only see the back of his best friend’s head from here. Swoops’ shoulders are stiff, and Kent would bet anything that he’s frozen solid. 

The team is still silent, and Caroline seems to be getting a little panicky. “So! I, um, came here? Because I thought maybe if I said hi, you — he — would want to meet me? I have to go back to Wisconsin tomorrow?” 

Kent takes off his glove and chucks it at Swoops’ numbers. 

“It’s me!” Swoops blurts, like Kent’s glove knocked the words loose. He skates forward a couple awkward strides, pushing past guys and coming to a fumbling stop in front of Caroline. “I mean, I think — my birthday was in September, September fifteenth. I was, I mean, you were in class, and your professor had this dog?” 

“Checkers,” Caroline says, looking stunned. “The dog, he’s a German Shepherd, my professor has epilepsy —.” 

“It was some sort of biology thing —.” 

“Microbio lecture, I’m going to be a nurse, I graduate in May —.” 

“Amazing,” Swoops breathes. “I’m Swoops. Jeff. Troy.” 

Caroline giggles a little. “What?” 

Swoops blushes. Swoops _blushes_. Kent locks that image away in his open-in-case-of-need-for-future-happiness vault. 

“I’m Jeff Troy,” Swoops says. “These knuckleheads call me Swoops. It is really, really nice to meet you.” 

+++

Kent calls Indira later. She helps him walk through balancing his happiness for Swoops and Caroline with the stunning sense of loneliness. She tells him that he’s not a bad person for feeling jealous. 

Kent wonders if his soulmate (former soulmate? ex-soulmate?) is okay. 

Kent calls Katie. 

It’s a rough night. 

 

**[ALEXEI, 27]**

Alexei’s learned to tune out a lot. Rinks are loud on game day, and you usually don’t want to hear what the crowd is shouting. Concerts are loud. Bars are loud. Madison Square Garden, when you’re facing down the Rangers and both sides are desperate for a playoff slot — _loud_.  

This, though. Walking into Fisht Olympic Stadium behind the Russian flag, Russian colors across his chest, thousands of his countrymen screaming from the bleachers. 

Alexei memorizes this loud, locks it into his heart. Alexei wants to remember this loud for the rest of his life. 

Tarasenko shouts something Alexei can’t hear and slings an arm across his shoulders. All Alexei can do is grin. 

He tries to pay attention through the speeches and the displays, he honestly does, but he’s more keyed up than he’s been in his entire life and it’s like he’s watching the night play on fast-forward. He’s at the Opening Ceremonies, he’s back at Olympic Village getting changed, he’s out with the team. The team, _his_ team, and for once he doesn’t have to muddle through translations into English or Swedish or French. Ovi’s apparently friends with basically every European athlete regardless of sport, and the people who don’t have to compete for a few days like the hockey team (and honestly, who thought giving men’s hockey _six days_ of mostly free time before the tournament starts was a good idea) wind up at a bar close to the Village. 

Alexei has a little more to drink than he probably should, but it’s the Olympics. The only thing on his schedule tomorrow is a team skate in the early afternoon, and it’s t _he Olympics_. So when Ovi presses another round into his hand, when Semin goads him into a drinking game, he goes with it. It’s not hurting anyone. He’s still coherent, he just finally has enough distance from some of the shit of the past few years that he can breathe. 

“You want to get out of here?” 

Alexei’s buzzed enough that he can’t stop himself from laughing out loud at the small-ish blond guy who’s just sidled up to him at the bar. “Your accent is terrible.” 

“So are Russian vowels, but at least I’m trying,” the guy says. His accent is truly awful, but his Russian is actually pretty comprehensible. “I’m Simu. Romanian. Snowboarder. You want to get out of here?” 

Alexei looks around. It’s still pretty early, and there are plenty of people in earshot. He lowers his voice. "This isn't something you should be so open about in Russia, you know.” 

Simu raises an eyebrow. “That’s not an answer.” 

“I’m not gay,” Alexei lies. 

“Also not an answer.” Simu downs the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the bar with a solid thunk. “Look. I have a single room and three days until my prelims start. I haven’t gotten laid in for-fucking-ever, I need to blow off steam, and I picked you because you’re Russian and apparently not an asshole and therefore probably not going to blab about it to anyone. And because you look like you could destroy me. In the best way.” 

Alexei’s jaw is basically on the floor. All he can come up with is, “You’re not my soulmate.” 

Simu snorts. “Who the fuck cares? It’s the Olympics.” 

It’s not the most eloquent closing argument Alexei’s ever heard, but it works. “It’s my birthday, you know.” 

Simu lights up. 

+++ 

It’s _good_. Alexei hasn’t been with someone in…far too long, really, and Simu is enthusiastic and responsive and doesn’t take what they’re doing too seriously. Alexei’s supposed to check back into his room by midnight, but he has plenty of time to learn what makes Simu swear or shout or beg.  

“Fuck,” Simu pants as Alexei cleans them both up with a damp washcloth. “Fuck. Three — _three_. I haven’t. Fuck, man, you were a good choice.” 

Alexei tries not to let his smile get too wide, but he’s pretty pleased with himself. He’s not the most experienced man in the world, he knows, but he’s observant and he learns fast. He likes making his partner fall apart under his hands. “Consider leaving a five-star review on my website.” 

Simu splutters a disbelieving laugh and rolls over, searching for his boxers. “I take it back. You’re ridiculous. But if we lived on the same continent three-quarters of the year, I’d totally be asking for your number.” 

“Seven,” Alexei says. 

“Seven?” Simu stares blankly, then cracks up. “Oh my _God_. You are such an asshole. _Seven._ Get out of here before you miss curfew.” 

Alexei steals one last kiss on his way out and starts the walk back to his side of the Village. It’s nearly midnight, but things are far from quiet; nearly every dorm-style building is still lit up. He catches up on his messages — texts from Marty, Sabina, his papa, Sava, looks like a missed call from Snowy half an hour back or so — and wanders a little. It’s cold, but not unbearable, and it’s a clear night. 

Landing in Parson's head is like ice water, because he'd _forgotten_. He'd been trying to forget, obviously, trying to move on, and he'd thought idly this morning that he hoped his minute didn't happen when he was talking to reporters or anything, but he'd managed to actually forget that this was going to happen. Something similar to guilt settles into his chest, but it's knocked aside by confusion when he sees who Parson is with: Snowy.  

_Alexei's_ Snowy. Marcus Snow, the Falcs' starting goalie. 

Alexei feels anger and jealousy start to bubble behind his breastbone, because what the _fuck_ is Parson doing with Snowy, even if objectively Alexei knew they were both going to be here for Team USA and Team Canada, respectively, and they're grown men and allowed to be friends. Those feelings are quickly swept aside when he gets a good look at Snowy's face through Parson's eyes. 

Snowy's pale, blotchy, tear-stained face and his wide, glossy eyes, which are focused on Parson like he's a lifeline. Snowy's hand is fisted in Parson's shirt, and Alexei can feel how Parson's exaggerating his breathing to make Snowy's hand rise and fall. 

"That's way better," Parson says. "That's all you have to do, just match your breathing to mine. That's it. So much better, Snow." 

He keeps up a string of low, reassuring nonsense while unlocking his phone. It lights up on his messages, open to a conversation with someone named Benny. Alexei reads quickly while Parson thumbs out a response, luckily typing slow so he can keep an eye on Snowy. 

_Benny @ 11:25PM: Cap, you up?_

_You @ 11:26PM: Yeah, what's up_

_Benny @ 11:26PM: Buddy of mine from UMich is on Team Canada. He's got an anxiety thing and I think he's having a rough night_

_Benny @ 11:26PM: He was texting and didn't sound good, and then he just stopped responding_

_You @ 11:26PM: I'll check on him, send me his phone # and room if you have it_

_Benny @ 11:27PM: Would you mind checking on him_

_Benny @ 11:27PM: Oh thank fuck_

_Benny @ 11:27PM: It's Marcus Snow, 604-555-3843, I don't know his room but he's near the rest of the Canadians and I think next door to Tavares_

_You @ 11:50PM: Got him, he'll be okay. You were right to text me. You're a good friend, Benny. I'll tell him to call you when he's up for it._

 

"Just texting Benny that you're all right," Parson narrates. "Because you are. You're safe, and this is going to pass. You're already doing great. Just keep breathing." 

Alexei's in a dead sprint before he's even fully back in his own head. It isn't hard to find Team Canada's rooms, since they're in the same building as Team Russia, and then he speed-walks his way down the hall, reading the little name plates as fast as he can until he finds the room Snowy is apparently sharing with Jamie Benn. 

The door is slightly ajar, but he knocks gently anyway; the last thing Snowy probably needs is Alexei barging in. He can hear Parson murmur a quiet question to Snowy, then, "Come on in, Benn." 

Alexei steels himself for just a fraction of a second before pushing through. It's somehow not completely gutwrenching to see Parson in person for once (maybe he's distracted by Snowy, maybe he actually _is_ starting to get over Parson -- he remembers, suddenly, that he's literally just getting back from a one-night stand, and the guilt from before comes roaring back) so he's able to keep his poker face together and say, "Not Jamie Benn. Am other tall, dark, handsome best hockey player. Snowy, you are okay? I see missed call, I come to see." 

"M'fine, Tater," Snowy manages, and it seems to be true; he looks far better than he did when Alexei saw him through Parson's eyes, just a few minutes ago. "Just got a little nervous. Parson helped." 

Parson gives him a relaxed wave. "Good to see you again, Mashkov. Mind grabbing some water and a thing of crackers?" 

Alexei follows instructions, cracking the cap on the water bottle and opening the plastic packaging around the crackers before handing them over. It earns him a grateful little smile, and a traitorous voice in the back on Alexei's head notes that this is the first honest smile Parson has ever directed at him. 

Snowy accepts sips of water, eats a cracker, then blurts, "This is so embarrassing. It's not like I'm even going to play, we brought fricking _Carey Price_ , you guys should just go —."

"Hey," Kent says, and that's a Captain Voice if Alexei's ever heard one. "Your brain just basically tried to start a civil war, and _you won_. There is nothing embarrassing about that. Also _I'd_ be terrified to be Carey Price's backup, and so would Mashkov here, and we're both way better than you, so you're perfectly justified in your feelings." 

It's not the way Alexei probably would've approached things, but it seems to work. Snowy rolls his eyes and calls Parson an asshole, then blinks a few times. "I just called Kent Parson an asshole. To his face. Off the ice. Today has been very strange." 

"Yeah, you're going to be fine." Parson says. He boosts himself to his feet, then offers a hand to Snowy. "Time for bed. You're probably going to have a nasty adrenaline crash in a few minutes." 

"Bathroom first," Snowy protests, and waves off their hands as he staggers in that direction. As soon as the door closes behind him, Parson is back on his phone, texting furiously. 

"I'm going to head out," Parson says, still texting. "He'll probably be better with someone he's comfortable with, now that he's a little more with it. I'm texting Jamie Benn to let him know to be quiet when he gets back. Have you ever —." He looks up at Alexei, who's staring at him like an idiot (he's seen videos of Parson handling a situation, he's been in Parson's head for it, but it is totally different to witness it firsthand), and tilts his head slightly. "No, you haven't. Okay. Have him drink more water, and he should eat a couple more crackers to settle his stomach. Best thing for him will be to go to sleep, probably, but he might want to shower or watch TV or talk about it or something. Go with what he wants, to a point. If it starts to get weird or if he spirals or you need backup, he has my number now — and here, give me your phone." 

Alexei hands it over on autopilot.  

"Call or text," Parson says, typing away. "We're three buildings over, I can be here in five minutes if he needs me — _oh, fuck_." He practically throws Alexei's phone back at him, babbling, "I'm sorry, shit, I didn't mean to look, the notification just popped up at the top and it was a reflex —." 

_Simu the Romanian @ 11:56PM: Snuck my number into your phone after all. Thanks for the great time tonight, 7_ 😉

The picture attached doesn't show Simu's face, but it doesn't need to. He'd taken it using a mirror, positioned _just so_ , and the aftermath of Alexei's attention to detail is plain for all to see. If Alexei had gotten this picture when safely back in his room, which is surely what Simu intended, he probably would've jerked off to it. 

In this context, he's kinda hoping the earth will open up and swallow him whole. 

"I'm sorry," Parson says again. "Um. I'm going to. Go. Now. You have my number. If. Yeah." 

"Parson," Alexei chokes out, just before Parson jerks the door open. 

Alexei has no idea what's showing on his face, but Parson must see something he can interpret. "I won't tell anyone," he promises, almost fiercely, and then his face softens. "You're lucky. To, ah, have someone." 

Parson's gone before Alexei can -- what? Explain? Confess? Ask him on a date, even though he's straight and waiting for his female soulmate and he's Alexei's unrequited match?  

There's a new contact in his phone, under _Parse_. There's one outbound message in their history, just Parson texting himself. 

_You @ 11:56PM: Mashkov_

Alexei listens to water running in the bathroom, thinks about his life choices, and adds, _Call me Alexei._  

 

**[KENT, 24]**

Nothing happens on Kent's twenty-fourth birthday. 

Well, that's not entirely true. He's in Cambridge, helping Katie apartment-hunt before law school starts, and Boston turns out to be _big_ into the Fourth of July. They get dinner at a hole-in-the-wall diner and take a train to the coast to watch fireworks over the ocean. Only two or three people recognize Kent, and they're good about not drawing too much attention. It's a good day, and Kent's sister is going to _Harvard fucking Law._

He doesn't have a soulminute, though. Why did he even let himself hope? 

He should probably call Indira in the morning. 

  

**[KENT, 24 + 161 DAYS]**

"What are you even doing here?" Jack hisses, dragging him from the main floor up to this bedroom. "I told you not to come back." 

" _Two years_ ago," Kent says. He wrenches his arm out of Jack's grasp. "You said that two years ago, before anyone believed you'd maybe go pro again _—_." 

"Before _you_ believed it, maybe —." 

"Stop, _stop_ , that's not what I —." Kent cuts himself off. Pulls his snapback down over his eyes. Takes a deep breath, tries to tune out the ridiculous party raging on just below them. "That's not what I meant. Last time, I was here trying to, to, be friends again. I got the message loud and clear: Not gonna happen. This isn't about that. It's about where you're going after this." 

"After this?" Jack looks at him blankly. Kent hates how good he looks, how much he fits in this shitty, rundown house with these college kids. This isn't supposed to be where Jack belongs. Jack belongs next to Kent. 

Kent can't stop a desperate little laugh. "You have no idea?" 

"I mean...it could be Montreal. It could be L.A. Okay? I don't know." 

Kent takes a deep breath. He has a job to do. "What about Las Vegas?" 

Jack turns away. "I...I don't know, okay?" 

Kent stares at Jack's shoulders. He used to be able to read everything about Jack's body language, down to the patterns of his breathing. Not anymore. Guess he'll have to be more proactive. 

He takes two quiet steps forward and wraps his fingers around Jack's wrist, echoing the grip Jack had used to pull him upstairs but with less force. He tugs, just a little, trying to get Jack to turn back towards him, and _score one for Parse_ when he does, but then Zimms is looking down at him with those big, dark eyes and Kent is suddenly seventeen and in love he never, ever thought he'd get the chance to have this again, so when Jack starts to say his name, Kent just...goes for it.  

Kissing Jack is not what he remembered. It's new, and their bodies don't fit together the same way, but one of Jack's hands settles at his hip and the other knocks his snapback to the floor, like always, and he tugs Kent closer, like always, and they take a joint fumbling step back until Jack steadies himself against the door, and Kent's heart is pounding so loud, and —

Jack's hands are on his shoulders, and he pushes Kent away. Not hard, not far, but enough to say, "Kenny. I can't do this." 

Seriously, can't Jack hear how loud Kent's heart is beating? "Jack. Come on." 

"No," Jack says quietly, and it sounds like every half-hearted protest he used to offer. _You're not my soulmate, we should focus on hockey_. "I. Um." 

Kent leans in, only to get pushed away again. This time it _is_ hard, and Kent stumbles back a few steps. 

"Kenny," Jack starts, but Kent is -- 

Kent is just so fucking _done_ with this. "Zimms, just fucking stop thinking for once and listen to me. I'll tell the GMs you're on board and they can free up cap space. Then you can be done with this shitty team. You and me --." 

"Get out," Jack says, and there's an edge to his voice that Kent hasn't ever really heard before. Not directed at him, anyway. 

"Jack," Kent says carefully, aware that he's fucked up. Losing his temper with Zimms _never_ works, because Zimms just -- 

"You can't," Jack starts, and Kent can practically see the pressure gauge above his head ticking towards red, yep, what a shocker, "You don't come to _my fucking school_ unannounced and _corner me in my room_ \--." 

When Kent get mad, Jack gets mad. It's written in stone somewhere. And then Kent gets even more mad, as always, because the two of them together are magic when it's good but pure chaos when it's bad, so Kent yells, "Because you shut me out! I'm trying to help!" 

Jack cuts back in over the top, "—and expect me to do whatever you want—" and no, _no_ , that's not why Kent's here, doesn't Jack _remember_? Doesn't he remember that they were fucking unstoppable on the ice? Nothing is more important than hockey, _their_ hockey, _nothing_ , and Kent's been doing it on his _own_ for the the past fucking six years. 

" _Fuck_ ," Kent swears vehemently, then, "Jack. What do you want me to say? That I miss you? _I miss you,_ okay?" 

Jack stares at him. Pressure gauge holding steady in the red. Kent can feel this moment falling apart. 

"I miss you," Kent tries again, quieter. He thinks he's deflating. He'd probably be horrified that he can almost hear the tears clogging his throat if he could even think past the fear that he is about to lose this _again_. 

Jack flips from inferno to ice so fast that Kent can't even follow it. "You always say that." 

_Don't_ , Kent pleads in his head. He's saying it to Jack as much as he's saying it to himself, because this is also written in stone: If Jack goes nasty, so does Kent. Action, reaction.  

And Kent, over the past six years? He's had a long time to hone his edges. 

( _You are responsible for your own actions_ , Indira says.)

"Huh. Well, shit. Okay." Kent pulls on every bit of media training he's ever had and stuffs it all down. The fear, the anger, the guilt. Stifles it, ruthless. "You know what, Zimmermann? You think you're too fucked up to care about? That you're not good enough? Everyone already _knows_ what you are. But it's people like me who still care." 

It's awful. It's vile. It hurts like acid coming out, but he revels in it. This is every fear he knew Zimms had back in the Q that he wouldn't actually talk about, this is _six years_ of Kent burying his resentment and hurt and guilt all at once, and Zimms tries to tell him to shut up, but Kent steamrolls, "You're scared everyone else is going to find out you're worthless, right?" 

It's too accurate. For both of them, it's too accurate. Kent can see that Zimms knows it, that he knows that these are Kent's fears too — Kent was never as quiet about his insecurities as Jack, and the Zimms who knew Kenny all those years ago will know that the Calder and the C and the Cup mean _nothing_ in the face of Kent trying to stack himself up against Jack, against his father, against _both_ their fathers. "Oh, don't worry. Just give it a few seasons, Jack. _Trust me_." 

Kent watches it land. Detonation on impact. Feels it in his own chest. A few more good seasons, then Kent'll be past his prime. He's nothing without hockey. Never has been, never will be.

"Get. Get out of my room." 

Kent swallows back bile and a desperate plea. "Fine. Shut me out again." 

"And stay — stay away from my team." 

Kent wants to scream. What the _fuck_ would he want with Jack's pitiful — oh. "Why? Afraid I'll tell them something?" 

It's low. It is so, so low. Kent hates himself. 

"Leave, Parse," Jack growls, and oh hey, looks like both of them hate him. 

Kent swings the door open, and that little blond kid from downstairs is, for some godforsaken reason, kneeling on the floor outside the room. He looks up at Kent with stupidly big doe eyes. 

Kent snatches his snapback off the ground and leaves with a petty parting shot about Jack's dad.  

He gets in his rental car.  

He drives back to the team's hotel in Boston. He texts Katie that he got hung up with team stuff and won't be able to see her tonight. 

He doesn't have a panic attack, because he's not that person anymore. He does, however, sit on the edge of the bathtub and stare blankly at the tile until his morning alarm goes off. 

 

**[KENT, 24 + 162 DAYS]**

There's an email in his inbox. It's a fine for missing curfew last night. 

He has a panic attack. 

(He can't go back. He can't go back to being that guy. The one who gets fined, the one his team can't rely on. He _won't_  be that person again.)


	5. had to have high, high hopes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay okay I know I said it would be 5 chapters and that's it, but suddenly there was plot in my AU and it got LONG and so there's actually a sixth chapter too but DON'T WORRY I'M POSTING IT RIGHT NOW keep ya pants on
> 
> Things I urge you to keep in mind during this chapter: Characterization. The baggage that both of these boys bring to each of their interactions. The fact that they don't actually know each other.

**[ALEXEI, 28]**

 

 

Tape usually ends pretty casually. Whoever's running the monitor shuts it down and reminds everyone where they're supposed to be next, and the guys filter out in small groups. It's a little different when they're on the road, but it's close to the same deal. 

Not today, apparently. Today, Ryan asks the guys to sit tight in the hotel conference room for a minute and pops out into the hallway. 

Alexei leans back in his chair, trying to get his neck to crack. Back-to-back roadies, double OT against the Sens last night, and the promise of a rough game against the Habs tomorrow have them all a little run down. The team's good this year, really good — they'll get a playoffs slot for sure — but no one's talking about them like they'll go the distance. Not yet.

Georgia nudges the door open with her hip and makes her way to the front of the room. Any chatter that'd started up quickly dies down, because this is certainly out of the ordinary — management doesn't come to _tape_. 

"Morning, guys," George says. "Sorry for the schedule interruption, but we've got something to talk about and if we're going to make a move, we probably need to do it fast. Anyone who's been around a while remembers that we like to get your input when we're doing something that'll shake up the team. That's how we got Marty and Tater. And now —." She blows out a breath. "We're thinking about offering Jack Zimmermann a contract. Discuss." 

Marty immediately speaks up, because they've clearly planned at least the first part of this. "Thirdy and I think it's a great idea. Kid's got fire, and he's matured as a player during his time on college ice. Seems smart, focused. We'd like to give him a shot." 

Everyone stays quiet, waiting to see what Thirdy has to say, but he just smiles his calm smile. After a few long breaths, Timmo raises his hand. 

George rolls her eyes. "Timmo, for the last time, the longest-standing vet on this time doesn't have to —." 

"Is polite," Timmo says, for the millionth time. "Zimmermann. Is drugs, right?" 

"His college team tests all their athletes regularly, and he's been through additional testing since he confirmed his eligibility," George says. It sounds like she's had to explain this multiple times today.  "There's no indication that he has any sort of drug problem, illegal or otherwise." 

The conversation continues. Alexei isn't sure what to think. He knows his first thoughts about Parson were completely incorrect; does that extend to Jack Zimmermann as well? He remembers the hype around Zimmermann during what was supposed to be his draft year, remembers thinking that the Aces may have traded Alexei away for a chance at Zimmermann. He remembers being in Parson's head around Zimmermann, how much Parson cared. 

If Jack Zimmermann joins the Falconers, would Parson visit? Are the two of them friends? If they're friends, why wouldn't Zimmermann be considering Vegas? Parson's been playing center since Spooks retired two seasons ago, God knows the Aces _need_ an actual center so Parson can get back to the wing where he belongs. He'd played on Toews' and Seguin's wings during the recent All-Star Game, and the pundits still haven't stopped talking about how he was clearly born for the position. The Aces should be moving heaven and earth to find him a worthy center. 

Alexei's lost in his own thoughts enough that the transition into his soulminute doesn't shock him as much as it normally does. What _does_ shock him is the mid-grade, throbbing pain spiraling up from Parson's ankle. 

Parson's hurt? 

He's lying on a couch in what's got to be his apartment. His right ankle is wrapped, propped up on pillows, and under an ice pack. His cat is curled up on his stomach, kneading at his other thigh. As Alexei watches, he takes a picture of his cat — carefully cropped not to show his ankle — and starts trying different filters on it. 

"You should scratch," says a familiar voice, and Jeff Troy walks into view. He tosses himself into an armchair. "Just take, like, two games off." 

Parson doesn't even look away from his phone. "I'm not having this discussion again, Swoops." 

"You're being an idiot. It's the _Oilers_. They’re basically tanking on purpose so they can get McDavid. We can handle them without you." 

"Not the point," Parson says. "If I scratch, everyone's going to want to know why. Injury gossip takes off. Someone in the franchise lets it slip. We've got the Kings in two weeks. You honestly telling me that they wouldn't target the shit out of me, if they thought they could take me out for the rest of the season?" 

Swoops glares at him. "Shit like that is why people say you're arrogant." 

Parson shrugs. He settles on a filter and holds it up for the cat's inspection. She headbutts his hand, which he takes as a sign of approval. 

"I'm just worried about you, Parse," Swoops says, after it's become clear that Parson isn't going to answer. "A bunch of us are." 

Parson's head goes to anger-annoyed-offended-betrayed in a heartbeat. "Talking about your captain behind his back, huh?" 

"Talking about our _friend_ , who refuses to take care of himself. And this is just the latest thing, I'm not even talking about whatever the fuck happened in Boston in December or how you don't talk about your soulmate, like, _ever_  —." 

"Drop it,” Parson says, terse. 

" _Fuck_ Harris," Swoops explodes. "Honestly, Parse —." 

The minute cuts out, and Alexei's back in his chair. Harris — Harlan Harris? What does the Aces' GM have to do with Kent Parson's soulmate? 

"Settled, then," George says, looking pleased. "I'll reach out to Zimmermann and see if he's interested." 

Alexei wouldn't mind if Parson came to visit, honestly. Parson knows that Alexei's at least slept with a guy, and he hasn't told anyone. Parson took care of Snowy. Parson is dedicated and talented and compassionate and smart and funny. He's everything Alexei would want, if Alexei was able to have the type of relationship he wants. If Parson was interested. If Alexei was able to be with a man without sacrificing Russia. 

He can't, and Parson isn't. But maybe...maybe they can be friends? 

Alexei pulls out his phone. It's not hard to find Parson's Instagram — it seems like half the planet is already following him, probably for the many pictures of his cat like the one he just posted  — and he taps the _Follow_ button.

 

**[KENT, 25]**

Jack signs with the Falconers. The Aces do not draft a single viable first line center. Vandal is traded to Philly. Torts retires. PR gives Kent a schedule so busy that he has to bring two new cat-sitters into the mix. Kent's mom gets rear-ended by someone at a stoplight, and she's fine, but now every time Kent's phone rings his heart rate jumps through the roof. He's not gaining weight the way he should be over the summer, and his trainer keeps frowning about his ankle.

And Kent?  

Kent's pretty tired. 

 

**[ALEXEI, 28 + 189 DAYS]**

Alexei officially meets Jack Zimmermann in August, and it takes him approximately three minutes to put his foot squarely in his mouth. 

It's one of several pre-pre-season get togethers at Thirdy's house. The new guys were invited, Alexei knew, but he just got back from Russia and didn't really put enough thought into it to be prepared to make small talk with the son of a hockey legend and former-best-friend-of-Alexei's-unrequited-match. He falls back on pretending that his English is worse than it actually is, trying to remember what he and Jack might possibly have in common outside of hockey, and —oh! Kent Parson! 

Alexei digs his phone out of his pocket and leans over the flimsy arm of the lawn chair. “Am friends with cat! Kit Purrson. You know Kent Parson, yes?” 

Jack takes one look at Alexei’s screen and locks up. “Oh. That’s. I used to, yeah.” 

Alexei flips his phone around, making sure he’s showing the picture he intended. Parson had posted it two days ago. He’d clearly been trying to take a selfie, but Kit had photobombed at the precise right moment and 80% of the screen is just fluff. The top corner of the screen is half of Parson’s face, caught in a laugh. Like all the picture Parson posts for Kit, it’s adorable. Alexei'd commented on it earlier, and Parson had written back _Flattering my cat won’t make me go any easier on you_. Alexei’d responded with a heart emoji. The fans love it. 

Jack, apparently, does not.

“You not like cats?” 

“What?” Jack looks startled by the question. “No, cats are. Cats are fine.” 

Alexei looks at the picture again. If it’s not Kit, then — oh. “Kent Parson?” 

“We used to play together.” Jack looks uncomfortable and tense. “We, uh. We’re not friends anymore.” 

This is…not what Alexei was expecting. “What happened? Sorry if nosy.” 

“No, no, it’s. It’s okay,” Jack says. “It’s just a long story. And it was a long time ago.” 

Alexei can’t help brightening a little. “If have not talked in long time, maybe different now?” 

“No, we. I talked to him at the end of last year. It’s still. We’re not friends anymore,” Jack says again. 

“He not congratulate on NHL?” This is hurting Alexei’s head. Jack is even worse at putting full sentences together in English than Alexei was _pretending_ to be, and none of what Jack’s saying lines up with what Sava’s told Alexei about Parson. Or what Alexei knows about Parson first-hand. 

“He did. Texted.” Jack blows out a big breath. “Not to be rude, Mashkov, but could we talk about something else?” 

Alexei, confused and not wanting to alienate a new teammate, snags Guy’s sleeve as he passes. “Guy! What you eat?” 

“Brownies. Thirdy’s wife made ‘em,” Guy says through a full mouth. “You want one? Zimmermann, you? I’ve got, like, six.” 

“I’m okay, thanks,” Jack says, and they both stare at him. “What?” 

“Is off-season,” Alexei says. “Why no brownie in off-season?” 

“Oh, it’s just. I have a friend, a guy I played with in college. He’s into baking. Kinda ruined me for most other baked goods, you know?” 

“Didn’t you go to college, like, thirty minutes from here?” Guy challenges. 

“Eh?” 

“Zimmermann,” Guy says, narrowing his eyes. “You mean to tell me you have a local source of _homemade baked goods_  and this is the first we’re hearing of it?” 

Jack’s eyes widen. “It didn’t seem relevant?” 

“Didn’t seem _relevant?!_ ” Guy practically shouts. “Tater, talk some sense into your rookie. This is ridiculous.” 

“Not my rookie!” Alexei calls after Guy’s retreating back. “Maybe my rookie,” he stage-whispers to Jack. “Tell me more about baker.”  

Jack smiles. “His name is Bitty.”  

 

**[KENT, 25 + 128 DAYS]**  

The game's a disaster. 

It's chippy from the beginning. The Aces are cueing off Kent, as they always do, and there's a tension in Kent that he can't shake. He comes out of the gate with a set jaw and cold eyes, Tracker takes a nasty hit from AJ Beckett early in the first, Mashkov drops gloves against Carl (who deserved it, Trevor Carlson's an asshole), and by the time they're coming out of the locker room to start the second period, Kent's team is taking this game just as personally as Kent is. 

And Kent. Well. 

Kent's played for the Stanley Cup. He's played in the Olympics. He's played for stakes so, so much higher than this early-season game against a team that's not even in their conference.  

But it feels like there's more on the line this time, and he knows — as they battle through the second, as Jack ties it up in the third, as the hits get dirtier — that he'll do anything to take home a win. He went first in the draft because Jack wasn't there, he won the Calder because Jack wasn't there, Kent is so _sick_ of his career being defined by the absence of Jack Zimmermann, if he can't beat Jack now that he's here — 

Kent's line goes out, probably for their last shift in regulation, and the whole world narrows to field awareness. Benny pulls off some insane stick save, Kosov recovers and smacks the puck desperately out of their defensive zone, Kent is _there_ and there's no room to breathe, no time to clear himself some space, he's _too fucking close to the net_ , 

and he's trying to drain all his momentum into his skates, _anything_ to avoid crashing someone else's goal, into Snow's goal, but of course — of fucking course — his right ankle, mostly healed but not quite after too many games running himself into the ground back-checking in a position he shouldn’t even be fucking playing, takes most of the strain and it just...gives. The only thing he can do, even as he watches the puck go in over Snow's shoulder, is dig in, make sure his blades don't come off the ice, and then he's full-body colliding with Snow and his shoulder takes out one of the pipes, and the net comes down on top of them, and then a new body impacts and then another, and it is loud everywhere and he hears someone yell _Typical fucking Aces hockey_ , which doesn't seem exactly fair, and then, right in his ear —  

"Ох блядский мудак!” 

There’s more, the person keeps shouting, but  — Kent has been listening to that voice speak that language since he was eleven years old. The past few years have been quiet, maybe, and his soulmate usually wasn’t swearing during soulminutes, but this is his soulmate. His soulmate who _drags him out of the pile by his collar_ , holds him up, and —  

Alexei fucking Mashkov is his soulmate. Was his soulmate. Alexei Mashkov, who is currently threatening to hit Kent right back, and Kent somehow doesn't think he just means on the ice. 

There’s less than thirty seconds on the clock. The coaches pull him, send one of the PK units out to mop up. Kent sits on the bench, numb, until the final buzzer. 

Winning, he thinks, as he stands up to head down the tunnel, was supposed to feel better than this. 

The locker room is quieter than usual after a W. Kent gives soundbites on on autopilot, showers without feeling the water. The trainers wrap his ankle again and make unhappy noises about the perpetual mild sprain. He's struggling into his post-game clothes when Benny drops into the empty cubby next to Kent —  Vandal's already long gone, probably waiting on the bus. Sava, Kent couldn't help noticing, also cleared out pretty quickly. 

Benny watches Kent struggle with his shoelaces for a second, then says, "Shitty play, Cap." 

"I know."

"Not like you." 

"Fuck. I know." Kent gives up on his shoes and drops his head into his hands. "Fuck. Is he okay? Snow? Have you heard from him?" 

"He's fine. You're an asshole." 

"I _know_ , okay, I. I should go find him. Apologize." Kent stands up sharply, grabbing at his stuff.  

"What?" Benny looks alarmed. "Cap, that's not —." 

"We've still got fifteen minutes before we have to be on the bus," Kent says, checking his watch. "Plenty of time. D'you know where their locker room is?" 

"I — yes, but — Swoops, _help_ ," Benny tries, but Swoops is watching them with an unreadable expression and just shakes his head. 

Kent stalks out of the locker room, Benny scrambling to keep up. There's some part of Kent's head that knows he's only focusing on this so he doesn't have to think about Mashkov — and how _stupid_ could he have been not to put it together before, he's Russian and the right age and friends with Sava and Kent is such an idiot — but now that he's set on this course of action, he's intent on seeing it through. He half-follows, half-leads Benny through the underbelly of the stadium until they take a corner and nearly bowl right into Snow. 

"Ben?" Snow says, surprised. "Parson? What're you guys doing here?" 

"I'm sorry," Kent blurts. "I just — I can't say I didn't mean to, because I did, but I — I'd never want to hurt you, Snow. Are you okay?" 

"I'm fine," Snow says slowly, like Kent's an animal he's trying not to send skittering off into the woods. His eyes dart to Benny, then back to Kent. "I'm. Are _you_ okay?" 

"Are you sure? It was an asshole move." Kent isn't sure why this matters so much, but it does. He needs Snow to know. 

"It shook me up and I'm pissed that they didn't call the goal back, but I'm fine," Snow says. "Is that — you came here to _apologize_? Did you talk him into this, Ben?" 

Benny snorts. "Because I have so much control over what he does." 

"Okay," Snow says, drawing the word out. "That's really nice, Parson, but you guys shouldn't be here. The team is pretty worked up." 

"We'll survive," Benny says drily. Then he reaches out and tangles his fingers in Snow's, who looks at him with fond and slightly exasperated eyes. "You're sure you're okay?" 

“I’m fine, I promise, I just need to eat and sleep and see my, uh," Snow says, trailing off with another look at Benny. Benny shoots a side glance at Kent, then nods to Snow, and Snow continues, "My soulmate? My boyfriend?” 

“Both. Both is good,” Benny says, clearly some sort of inside joke going by the way Snow snorts a laugh, and Benny beams a giant smile at Kent.

Oh. _Oh._ "Oh," Kent finally says. “Oh! Cool. Okay. Well. I'm glad you're okay, Snow. Benny, uh, bus in ten, okay? And I can, uh, make excuses for you to get out of team dinner. If you want." 

Benny turns his grin on Snow just as two voices arguing in loud Russian come into earshot. Snow's eyes widen in warning, but Peaches and Mashkov are rounding the corner before Kent's brain can start functioning again.

 

**[ALEXEI, 28 + 274 DAYS]**  

"I don't care," Alexei retorts. "He could've seriously injured Snowy." 

"It was an accident," Sava insists. He'd come to find Alexei immediately after the game and plead Parson's case, but Alexei's done with excuses. He might still be a little in love with the idea of Kent Parson, but he's not naive. He doesn't actually know Parson, but he's starting to know Jack pretty well, and he knows that talking about Parson still shuts Jack down in a way that only means bad things. Parson helped Snowy that one time in Sochi, sure, but he also just crashed Snowy's net like a reckless asshole. Snowy is Alexei’s rookie, and Jack might as well be, and Parson has hurt or threatened  _both_ of them. 

Sava can champion Parson all he wants. Jack's been on edge all week, Alexei just played a game that left fire in his veins, he had to watch his unrequited match break one of the most fundamental rules of hockey in a dangerous, stupid way. Alexei’s been granting Parson all kinds of leeway because some traitorous part of Alexei’s heart still thought, still _hoped_ that maybe their match would somehow magically be healed one day, but now? 

Alexei is _done_ with Kent Parson, which is probably why he takes the next corner in the cool-down laps Sava's insisting on and finds Parson standing in the hall with Snowy and the Aces' goalie. 

Alexei sees red. His emotions, when it comes to Kent Parson, are too complicated. It's been too long, it's hurt too much. He can never have Parson, not the way he thought he might want to if given the chance. It's too much for him to filter. 

"What?" He thunders, storming towards them. "Dirty play on ice not enough? Come here, bring friend, beat up our goalie?" 

Parson goes pale at the sight of him, and Snowy's the one to respond. "Calm down, Tater. He was apologizing." 

"Apology bullshit," Alexei snorts. "Should not have done at all." 

"Aloysha," Sava says quietly, in Russian. "Don't do this." 

"Don't do what?" Alexei snarls back, also in Russian. In the corner of his eye, Parson jerks. "Don't hold him accountable? Just because you're willing to let him get away with anything —." 

"You could've told me," Parson says in English, sounding strangled. 

"What are you talking about?" Alexei snarls. 

"When you. Found out," Parson continues. "About. About the match. You could've told me." 

Alexei's heart stops. Next to him, Sava swears quietly. The goalies are staring. "What are you talking about," he repeats hoarsely, hoping it isn't true. Hoping Parson hasn't figured it out, that he just misheard, but — 

"I wouldn't have told. Not if. I wouldn't have," Parson insists, like it's important to him that Alexei understands. 

[Here's what you need to know about this moment: If Kent spoke Russian, this could've gone differently. If Alexei's temper didn't inhibit his ability to string together a complete sentence in English, this could've gone differently. If either of them could give the other the air to explain, this could've done differently. If Alexei wasn't looking at Snowy and being reminded of every career-ending injury he's seen, if Kent wasn't looking at Benny and Snow together and hating himself for jealousy, if a million things had shifted even one degree, this could've gone differently.]

Alexei understands perfectly. Parson is such a great ally, Parson would've kept Alexei's stupid unrequited match a secret. "Didn't need to know," he growls. "Not relevant. Not fair to you." 

_Not fair to me_ , Parson mouths to himself, apparently trying to work it through in his head. "Oh. _Oh_. By the time you knew — that's why you closed your eyes? You'd already decided that you didn’t —?" 

[Here's what else you need to know about this moment: Kent Parson can rationalize anything, when it comes the universe fucking him over. Alexei had already decided that he didn't want Kent as a soulmate, and he thought it would be kinder to just reject the match and let it die without Kent ever having to know. Spare Kent the embarrassment, maybe. Yeah, that...that's a story Kent can believe.]

"Nothing to decide," Alexei cuts him off. He's distantly mortified that they're doing this with an audience. "Not a possibility. I know this. You say, is not possible." 

"When — when did I say that?" Parson says, bewildered. "Is this about — Mashkov. _Alexei._ What I said about my soulmate, I mean, _I'm not_ —." 

[Here's the last thing you need to know about this moment: Alexei is so, so tired of being hurt by a man he doesn't even know. A man who doesn't even know that he's hurting Alexei when he does it. Alexei may not be perfect, but he doesn't deserve to be hurt, and he doesn't deserve to be alone. The universe can go fuck itself.] 

"Am glad," Alexei continues loudly, "Am glad, to not be soulmate. You rat. You hurt Zimmboni, you try hurt Snowy. Not good person. Not good soulmate." 

It visibly hits Parson hard, and Alexei feels bad for a moment. He could have done this somewhere private. He could have chosen his words with more tact. He stands behind what he said, but he didn't have to say it like _that_ , not when it's making Parson look like he might lie down right here in the hallway, go to sleep, and just not bother waking up. 

[But here's something you need to remember about this moment: Kent's had years to hone his edges.]

"Fuck you," Parson hisses. "If you weren't such a _goddamn coward_ —." 

"Enough," Sava interrupts. "Parser, bus." 

"No, let little rat talk," Alexei says, voice dropping half an octave. Any sympathy he might have had for Parson, any inkling of remorse is being overridden. Alexei is livid. How _dare_  he. How dare he — he doesn't know Alexei. He doesn't know what Alexei's life is like, or what it _would_ be like, and Alexei's hands tighten into fists at his sides and he sees Parson track the movement, sees Parson brace and then settle his weight on the balls of his feet, _ready_ , and —

" _Kenny_." 

Jack Zimmermann is between them out of nowhere, back to Alexei, hand on Parson's chest. 

"Get out of the fucking way, Jack," Parson spits. 

Jack doesn't move, doesn't flinch. "What do you want the story to be tomorrow, Kent? How you won, or how you got into a fistfight with an enforcer in the hallway after the game?" 

For a heartbeat, Alexei doesn't think it's going to be enough. For a heartbeat, he thinks Parson's going to go _through_ Jack to get to him. 

The moment breaks 

"Right. Fuck. You're right." Parson presses the heels of his hands into his eyes for a long breath. "Thanks, Zimms. Snow, again, I'm sorry. See you around." 

Sava leaves Alexei's side to follow Parson down the hall. The Aces' goalie gives Snowy a long, lingering hug, then trails after them. 

Snowy waits until all three Aces are gone from view before turning to Alexei and fixing him with the glare he normally reserves for opposing offenders. "What the _fuck_ , Tater. _He's_ —." 

"Not here," Alexei growls. The very last thing he needs right now is to have a discussion about his infinitely crappy match situation where _Jack Zimmermann_ can hear. 

Jack finally tears his eyes away from where the Aces had retreated down the hall. "Are you guys okay? What happened?" 

"Parson happened," Alexei grits out, and walks away. 

 

**[KENT, 25 + 211 DAYS]**

Kent hates the All-Star Game. 

He used to enjoy it. Taking a break from the punishing 82-game schedule for a long weekend of drinking and dicking around, getting to see some of his buddies from around the league without the pressure of playoff-determining points breathing down their necks. It was a good way to blow off steam. 

He would’ve gladly faked an upper body injury to not be here this year, but Harris gave Kent the spiel about representing the Aces bookended with a vague threat about Kent’s contract (it expires at the end of this season and Kent already knows that negotiation is going to be a _nightmare_ ), so here he is. Spending as much of the weekend as he can hiding in his hotel room, FaceTiming Katie. 

"Hey, so, I need to tell you something," she says, and the tone of her voice makes Kent sit up. She's doing needlepoint, which should've been Kent's first clue that this wasn't just a normal chat. Katie always keeps her hands busy when she's nervous. 

"Are you okay?" 

"What? Yeah, I'm fine, I. Uh. It's about my soulmate." 

Kent's _definitely_ sitting up straight now. "You found him? Katie, that's amazing!" 

"I found," she starts, then cuts herself off and starts again. "I found. Um. Them?" 

Kent stares. "What?" 

"Well, they found me, technically," Katie says quickly, and then she's blurting, "We're a triad match, we think? I told you about the minutes I was having for the guy, his name is Raleigh _don't laugh that's his actual name_ , he's from North Carolina and he works for a non-profit in Boston, and he found Theresa a couple years ago but it turns out they've both been having double minutes forever? And their other minutes were about me? And so they've been trying to find me since they met, but I guess I'm minute-blind to Theresa, but she had a minute about me two days ago and I was literally filling out a form with my name and address and everything, you know that insurance thing for Mom, and so she told Raleigh and they showed up here and left a letter in my mailbox that they'd be at a coffee shop nearby and I went to meet them and I, um." Her eyes are big as she stares into the camera. "Kent. Say something?" 

" _Two_ soulmates," is all Kent can think to say at first, then, "You are so _fucking_ lucky, Katie-Kate." 

Katie grins this massive, brilliant grin and launches into everything else she's learned about her soulmates (Theresa's a mechanical engineering student in New York, Raleigh has seven siblings, Theresa can't whistle, Raleigh plays the trombone) and Kent lets her happiness wash over him. 

If this is how the universe is choosing to even things out — no soulmate for Kent, but two for the person he cares most about on the planet — Kent can be happy with that, he thinks. That sounds kinda, y'know. Fair. 

 

**[ALEXEI, 29 + 1 DAY]**

Alexei wakes up the day after his twenty-ninth birthday and realizes that he didn’t have a soulminute. 

Part of him is glad. The match is finally null, then. He can move on. 

Part of him is unbelievably, unbelievably sad. 

He calls his parents, and when his papa tells him that he may have been too harsh with Kent Parson, Alexei feels like throwing up. 

 

**[KENT, 25 + 219 DAYS]**

Why the _fuck_  is Kent having a soulminute? It is not his fucking birthday, it's not even Mashkov's birthday anymore, what the _actual fucking fuck_. 

Mashkov is on the phone and speaking Russian, because of course he is. He's in his house in Providence, Kent thinks, walking endless circles around a dining room table stacked with empty Tupperware containers (which, _why_. Kent can see his kitchen from here, he's got a million cabinets). 

Kent can't follow the conversation, not really. Two of his rookies are Russian this year, so he's been putting in extra work to learn more than just the usual string of profanities, but this is a far cry from the slow, carefully-enunciated practice conversations he's had with Peaches. Mashkov feels upset about something, and the woman he's talking to is trying to calm him down. Kent catches his own name a couple times, and frantically thinks back through everything he'd done yesterday — what could Mashkov have seen during his soulminute that's got him so upset? They haven't seen or spoken to each other since the game in November, nothing's changed. What could Kent have done that's freaking Mashkov out, and why the _fuck_ is Kent in his head for this? 

Yesterday was fine, Kent's pretty sure. Morning skate, tape, lunch with Benny and Tracker, meeting with management, conditioning, drills, press. He'd heated up something from the freezer for dinner and fallen asleep on the couch to a Chopped rerun. Nothing happened. What the fuck is going on? 

Mashkov hangs up. Sits down at the table. He's lonely. And...scared? Upset with himself about something. 

In the next breath, Kent's back in the coaches' lounge and everyone's staring at him. 

"You okay, Parson?" Fracker asks, watching him warily. 

"What? Yeah, I'm — I'm fine," Kent says. "Must've. Uh. Zoned out?" 

"If it's too much to ask for you to pay attention, Kent," Nadeau says, "I'm sure we can find someone else who'd respect the role." 

Kent is half a second away from telling Nadeau to go fuck himself, but he obviously can't say that to his head coach and he _definitely_ can't risk losing his captaincy. "I'm sorry, sir. Won't happen again." 

 

**[KENT, 25 + 241 DAYS]**

It happens again. 

Kent is just sitting on a plane, minding his own business, and then he's in Mashkov's head. Mashkov's also on a plane. Kent wonders wildly if their planes will cross in mid-air. Kent wonders more wildly why the _fuck_ this keeps happening. Mashkov's rejected the match, that's been made _really fucking clear_ , and Kent's not exactly Mashkov's biggest fan either these days. Kent shouldn't be having minutes at all, let alone minutes that don't coincide with birthdays. _No one_ has minutes that don't coincide with birthdays. 

Mashkov is reading Ender's Game, and Kent can't decide if he feels like laughing or crying. Kent told the press that his soulmate was reading this book, once. Five years ago.  

It's quiet on Mashkov's plane, just like it's quiet on Kent's, and the whole scene is familiar to Kent in a way that his minutes usually aren't. When Mashkov's playing hockey, sure, Kent gets that, but the other stuff is usually lightyears from anything Kent's got experience with. This, though. On a plane, on the road, game to game, surrounded by his team. 

It's nice.  

Of course, that peace is broken the instant he's back in his own head and Swoops' nose is basically touching his own. 

"The _fuck_ , dude," Kent hisses, startling back in his seat but remembering to keep his voice down.

"Oh thank God," Swoops sighs. He collapses back into his chair. "I thought you were having a seizure. Were you? Having a seizure?" 

"No, I wasn't having a  — Jesus, Swoops. I'm fine." 

"You were _unresponsive_. For, like, a full minute." 

Kent makes a decision, between one heartbeat and the next. He cranes his head around, making sure everyone within hearing distance is asleep or wearing headphones, before saying, "I think my match is pissed at me." 

Swoops frowns. "Didn't we already know that Mashkov's mad at you? Unrequited and all that?" 

"No, not Mashkov," Kent says. "The match. The actual _match_. That was my second soulminute in the last couple weeks." 

Swoops frowns harder. "Dude. Your birthday isn't until July. Wait. You're having minutes again?"  

"Yep." 

"You're having soulminutes again. And they're non-birthday soulminutes. And they're still Mashkov?" 

"Yep." 

"Shit, dude." 

"Yep." 

Swoops thinks. "Matches aren't. Y'know. _Sentient_ , Parse. It can't be mad at you." 

"You're also not supposed to be able to have a minute not on your birthday. And yet." 

"And yet," Swoops echoes. "Fuck. What do you think it means? Do you think he's having minutes, too?" 

  

**[ALEXEI, 29 + 42 DAYS]**

"What the hell do you mean, you had a soulminute?" Sabina whispers furiously. "Your birthday was a month ago. And if this call wakes up my kid, I swear to God I will _end_ you, Mashkov, she just started sleeping through the night." 

"I don't know!" Alexei whispers back. He's in what he's hoping is a rarely-used equipment closet in the basement of the American Airlines Center, and he's got less than ten minutes before he needs to be in the locker room to get ready for warmups. And he's just spent a minute in Parson's head. In _March_. "It's doesn't. It's not supposed to happen!"  

Sabina sighs. "Well. What was he doing? What did you see?" 

_"I need to tell you something," Swoops says. They're playing video games, camped out on Parson's couch. Kit is draped around Parson's neck, a warm and comforting weight._

_Parson groans. "What'd the rooks do this time?"_

_"No, not — not them. It's about me. I. Uh. So you know how Caroline's parents are back in Michigan? And her dad's not doing great?"_

_Parson sits up a little; Kit grumbles in protest at the movement. "I thought he was getting better?"_

_"He was, for awhile. Not so much recently."_

_Parson pauses the game. "Shit, man. I'm sorry."_

_"Yeah. Well. She wants to be closer to them, you know? And I. She's my soulmate. I'd like to see her more than once or twice a month."_

_Alexei can feel Parson put two and two together. "You're asking for a trade."_

_Swoops nods. "Talked to the front office about it yesterday. Not this season, obviously, but over the summer. The Wings, if they'll take me, but anywhere in the Atlantic would probably be fine. Closer, anyway."_

_Parson is lonely just thinking about it. He's hurt, Alexei can feel it, but he buckles that away somewhere and says, "I get it. Sucks on a lot of levels, but I get it. Family's important. You ready to leave Vegas?"_

_Swoops doesn't answer right away in favor of restarting the game. After a few seconds, he says, "You know that Vegas kinda_ sucks _, right?"_

_It startles a laugh out of Parson. "What?"_

_"Not the city. This franchise. Please tell me you're aware that our organization is run by shit heads who've been taking advantage of you since the day you got here."_

_"What the fuck are you talking about?"_

_"Jesus." Swoops pauses the game again, then exits it for good measure. "Why do you think we haven't drafted a decent center? Why haven't we announced another A to give you some breathing room after Torts retired? Why do you have literally triple the media schedule any of the rest of us have? Why are you spending hours a day in meetings with management?  You showed up here convinced you had to prove yourself against the, like, shadow of Jack Zimmermann, and you're somehow still not sure you've done that almost eight fucking_ years  _later so you are letting them run you into the fucking ground."_

_Parson stands up sharply. Kit, displeased, jumps for the safety of the couch. "You don't know what you're talking about."_

_"I know about the condition Harris is putting into your next contract," Swoops says. "You left the draft of it sitting out, and I snooped. And. Kent. I know you love this team. But if you walked away? Franchises across the country would literally fight each other to offer you contracts. Contracts that don't include shitty, homophobic conditions. You don't have to stay here."_

"I'm not sure," Alexei says, slow. "He's. There's a lot going on with him." 

"I thought he had a female soulmate, and your match was unrequited, and you weren't interested anymore anyway? After the game, and what he said? Jesus, Alyosha, it's been _years_  of this." 

"I know. But." Alexei makes a frustrated noise. "What if I'm missing something? What if that's what the match is trying to show me? That I've still got it wrong?" 

"What if you just get hurt again? He _has another soulmate_ , Aloysha. A soulmate who isn't you. A soulmate who is _female_." 

"I know, I know. You're probably right. And he — God, he can be such an asshole." 

"You have that in common, actually." 

"Helpful." 

"It is three in the morning here, Alyosha." 

"Right, right. I'm sorry. I'll let you get back to sleep. But, just. Sabina. What if? What if something changed? What if there's a chance?" 

Sabina sighs. "Then from what you've told me, you probably have a lot to apologize for. And a hard decision to make. You know what Russia is like. You'll never be able to tell the truth about who you love." 

"Russia is wrong about this," Alexei says quietly. 

"You know I agree with you, but please. Just be careful, Alyosha. Please." 


	6. like an anthem in my heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter six of six. Boom. 
> 
> There are several places in this chapter where I've used lines from the comic pretty directly or paraphrased for the sake of continuity with stuff I've already written; full credit for those to Ngozi. 
> 
> Please note that the author has no knowledge of how NHL contract negotiations actually work. Or how management hierarchies on NHL teams work. Or how the NHL works. Or how Harvard Law works, outside of multiple viewings of Legally Blonde. I'm here because Ngozi wrote a really cute comic and I fell in love with fictional hockey players, okay? 
> 
> Warning for homophobic language from fandom shitpile Carl in and several appearances/mentions of Kent's dad.

**[KENT, APRIL 2]**

 

Kent hears Jack Zimmerman say, "My boyfriend made it," and he thinks he's having a stroke until he realizes he's having _another fucking soulminute_. 

While he's in the shower. Awesome. Here's hoping he doesn't, like, fall over and drown. Matches are usually more considerate with timing than this, so it's really just contributing to Kent's theory that he pissed off his match and it's taking revenge. At least he's not having minutes while he's on the ice. Or driving. 

Shit, maybe he should stop driving for awhile? That'd be hella suspicious, though.  

This whole stream of thoughts happens while Mashkov is chewing and swallowing a _delicious_ bite of sandwich and trying to wrap his head around what he's just heard. Kent's been to the Falcs' practice rink a few times, and he's pretty sure that's where Mashkov is now — the players' lounge, maybe. Jack is standing on one side of a counter laden down with bread and jam and some form of nut butter: Zimmermann pre-game sandwich staples if Kent's ever seen them. Jack looks mildly nervous as he waits for his teammates to respond. 

Kent's waiting for them to respond, too, but it's anticlimactic. One guy (a rookie, Kent thinks) asks if it's a joke, but he's pulled away quickly for a quiet talk by one of the vets. Robinson pipes up, and — fuck, Robinson's already met the boyfriend. Jack's been running some sort of guerrilla coming out campaign. 

Mashkov, for his part, seems temporarily stunned. "Wait. So you're never having girlfriend?" 

Jack blushes a little. "I, eh. Dated a girl in college. Didn't stick." 

Snow elbows Mashkov in the gut. "Jesus, Tater. He was being fucking discreet, you know? Hush hush?" 

Mashkov takes another bite (and _fuck,_ this sandwich is unbelievable). "Secret? Why? Who cares?" The match doesn't let Kent read Mashkov's thoughts, not exactly, but he gets impressions and feelings pretty clearly. And Kent knew Mashkov wasn't homophobic, okay, the guy would've spoken to Kent _way_ differently back in November if that were the case, but it's still nice to have it confirmed. Things just fall nicely into place in Mashkov's head, one after another: Oh, Jack isn't straight. Oh, he's Canadian, not a problem for him. Oh, I should be supportive. Oh, the _pies_  — "He's one making all the nook pies? 

"Pretty much," Jack says. "He made this jam and this almond butter too."

"It's great," Robinson says. 

"Thanks, Thirdy." Jack's got a good poker face, but Kent can tell that he's happy. Happier still when Mashkov walks around the table and claps an arm around his shoulders. 

It is _weird_ to be taller than Jack Zimmermann. 

"Hey hey hey, Zimmboni!" Mashkov says. Kent still can't believe that Jack lets them call him that. Mashkov feels weirdly determined about this, like he needs to prove to Jack that he's okay with Jack's sexuality. Maybe he _does_ need to prove it, being from Russia and in the NHL. Kent wonders, briefly, if there will be consequences to Mashkov being an ally or —  

Wait. 

Even if Mashkov doesn't want Kent for a soulmate. Even though their match is unrequited. Mashkov still had a male soulmate, at one point. Kent doesn't keep up with all the finer details of global politics, but he knows that Kosov's sister basically fled the country when the wrong people found out that she was dating a woman.

What happens to Alexei if Russia finds out about their match? 

_Shit_. 

"No one cares if you have boyfriend," Mashkov continues, unaware that the silent passenger in his head is freaking out. "What's his name?" 

Kent's spiraling train of thought pauses long enough to think,  _Don't say_ _—_

"Oh. Uh. Bittle," Jack says, and _why_ does that hurt so much? Bittle, Eric Bittle, the tiny blond kid who overheard Kent being a colossal asshole to Jack two years ago at that stupid college party, the one with the YouTube channel with the comments about _falling for straight boys_ and  _Jack is being so hard on me during checking practice_ and _I didn't come to Samwell to find my soulmate, but I know he's here_. The very first thing Jack ever tweeted was actually a re-tweet of Eric Bittle, and Kent watched every single one of his videos in a masochistic daze after that. "Or Bitty. We played together. He bakes a lot."

"Your baker!" Alexei exclaims. "You tell me about him last summer, yes? At Thirdy's. You invite me for dinner now, right?" 

By the time Kent's back in his shower, his knees are shaking and he has to sit on the edge of the tub. 

Bitty is definitely Jack's soulmate. It makes sense. He's like Kent but _better;_ kinder and warmer and not as fucked up. Not as many sharp edges. Still a _couple_ sharp edges, mind you — Kent knows perfectly well what _Bless his heart_ means when said in the tone Bitty sometimes uses in videos when he's really, really pissed off — but that's good; Jack needs someone to keep him in check every now and then. They're probably amazing together. Kent is. 

Kent is _happy_  for them, he realizes with a start. He runs one of the self-evaluation tools Indira's taught him. There's jealousy there, sure, and a tinge of bitterness, and it _hurts_ , but he's genuinely happy for Jack. Still wants to hand him his ass on the ice, wants to get _Kent Parson_ engraved on every trophy Jack's ever even looked at, might not be able to speak to the guy civilly just yet, but he can be happy for Jack about this. 

He's feeling pretty proud of himself for how he's handling this, but when he goes to shut off the water he has what feels like his tenth revelation of the day: If Jack comes out publicly, like to the _world_ , it's only a matter of time before people start asking questions about what Jack and Kent's relationship was like in the Q. And if that happens, Kent either has to come out himself —  which means losing hockey, or at least losing Aces hockey —  or lie again and completely trash any chance he might have at a healthy relationship in the future. 

Hard to say which scares him more.

 

**[ALEXEI, MAY 25]**

Alexei watches the Aces fall to the Schooners in game six from Jack Zimmermann's apartment. They'd been hoping that the Aces would make it to game 7, for another couple days' rest (the Falcs' series against the Flyers for the Conference Championship had been short but brutal), but it was clear by the end of the second that the Aces didn't have enough left to make up a two-goal gap. Post-game coverage agrees; the Aces ran out of gas, plain and simple. 

"Schooners for the Finals." Bitty yawns from his place on the couch, one leg thrown over Jack's lap. "You going to be okay with that, Tater?" 

Alexei shrugs and winces — his shoulder's not as thrilled about the extended season as the rest of him. "Has been ten years. Most guys I skated with, not on team now. Will be fine." 

Snowy shrugs out of his blankets and stands, cracking every vertebrae in his spine on the way up. "Okay, guys, I'm going home. Tater, you want a ride?" 

"Spending night with Jack and B," Tater yawns. "If is still okay?" 

"Of course it's okay, don't be silly," Bitty says. "The guest room's all made up." 

It's late, nearly one in the morning, by the time Tater's changing for bed and brushing his teeth. He's thumbing through Instagram and debating trying to stretch before going to sleep when he gets hit with a sudden adrenaline crash, and he's in Parson's head. 

Parson's in a nearly empty locker room, and Alexei already doesn't like this soulminute. He'd been hoping for another non-birthday soulminute, because he's still holding onto the fantasy that there's _something_ about his match with Parson that can be resolved or fixed, but this one tastes like anger and frustration, fear and resignation. Parson's ankle hurts, as do his wrist and his back, and he's got a deep headache, he hasn't had a chance to shower yet, his heart is beating too fast, and the head coach of the Aces is _yelling_ at him.  

Alexei doesn't know Mike Nadeau. The Aces hired him a year or two after Alexei had been traded. He doesn't know him, but he dislikes him instantly, and the minute turns even more sour in his mouth.  

"Fucking disgraceful," Nadeau snaps. "Poor performance on the ice, poor performance off the ice. Jesus, Parson, what the hell are we paying you for?" 

A small part of Parson is sparking in indignation, but it's mostly drowned out by guilt. He's staring at his socked feet. "I'm sorry, Coach." 

He's _sorry_? Parson's been playing out of his mind for _months,_ everyone knows that. ESPN's weekly Top Ten reels usually feature Parson more than once. He's been on the leaderboard for top points-getters in the league all season. And the Aces just made it to the Western Conference Championships — yes, they lost, but losing in six to a team that now goes on to the Stanley Cup Finals isn't something to be embarrassed about. 

"Lot of fucking good your apology does," Nadeau says. "Is that what you're going to tell the fans, that you're _sorry_? That what you're going to tell management?" 

_Yes_ , Alexei thinks. That's exactly what you tell them. You tell them that you gave it everything you had, but it just wasn't your year, and you'll come back next year hungrier than ever. That's what you say, and if it's true, there's no shame in it. 

"I," Parson says. "I'll try harder, sir. Maybe if I put in more hours with the other centers, we  _—."_

"You're putting in plenty of hours, Kent," says a quiet voice from the side, and Parson's vision snaps to a man Alexei hadn't seen. It's one of the assistant coaches, he thinks. Fracasa? Relatively new to the franchise, if Alexei's remembering correctly. "We know how hard you've been working."  

"Putting in the effort means jack- _shit_  if it doesn't pay off," Nadeau hisses, a statement with which Alexei vehemently disagrees.

Fracasa looks troubled by this, too. "Mike. I'm not sure this is the most productive time to be having this conversation." 

"This isn't a conversation," Nadeau says. "A conversation requires that the person you're talking to have enough brain cells to say more than _Yes, Coach_ and _No, Coach_ and _I'm sorry, Coach_." 

Parson might throw up. _Alexei_ might throw up. 

"Mike," Fracasa says again. 

"Fine," Nadeau snaps. "Fine. Coddle him, like always." 

He goes to storm out, but Parson calls, "Coach?" 

"What?" Nadeau practically growls. 

"Let me be the one to talk to the team," Parson says. His throat is tight. "I. I want to take responsibility for it. They should hear it from me. Please. Let me talk to them." 

Nadeau frowns. "If you think that's enough to make us come to the table and consider the changes you asked for in your contract, you've got another thing coming after that piss-poor performance." 

"No, I. I know. That's not why I'm asking. Please." 

"Fine. Theo, supervise." Nadeau's gone, the door slamming behind him. 

"Kent," Fracasa starts, but Parson clears his throat loudly. 

"I should shower and get dressed," he says. His voice almost doesn't break. "The team's waiting." 

"Kent." 

" _Please_ , Fracker." 

Alexei blinks at the painting on the wall of Jack's guest bedroom, something with a lot of blues and purples. Jack's friend Lardo painted it, he thinks. He taps his phone awake. 

_You @ 12:56AM: You play great game, great series, great season. We beat Schooners for you, you will see )))_

+++

_Parse @ 3:10AM: Thanks Mashkov_

_Parse @ 3:14AM: Good luck_

 

**[KENT, MAY 29]**

Kent goes through the couple days after losing to the Schooners on auto-pilot. He knows that he does his job, he knows that he talks to his family, he knows that he feeds Kit, but that's about the extent of it. Indira would tell him that he's disassociating, probably. Kent doesn't really care.

Locker clean-out day always sucks, but this one hurts more than most. The Aces have made it to the playoffs almost every year Kent's been on team, and this was the furthest they'd gotten since winning the Cup. Somehow it's worse, to have been closer. It's definitely worse that this was the last time he and Swoops will play under the same colors. 

Kent takes a minute to just stand in the tunnel after the other guys are gone. He may have just finished his last season as an Ace; he can take this time to remember what it is he'll be giving up if he leaves. His contract expires at the end of June and the formal negotiation period opens soon. Based on the past few weeks, it's not likely to go well. And Kent still has to figure out if he _wants_ to make the negotiation work, or if he should be looking elsewhere. This was his seventh year in the league. He could declare himself a UFA, see what happens.  

His view of the ice jumps to a view of a nondescript office, currently crowded with several hockey players and one much smaller woman. She looks vaguely familiar, and Kent recognizes most of the guys. It's another soulminute, of course, because Kent doesn't have enough going on in his life without his match reminding him of his endlessly fucked-up soulmate situation. 

"Thanks for coming," the woman says. "You need to be focused on the Schooners, I get it, and I wouldn't pull you from that if it wasn't important. I'll keep it quick. You're all aware that Kent Parson's contract with the Aces is expiring?" 

Kent feels it like a jolt to the heart, but it only feels like a reminder to Mashkov. Why does he know about Kent's contract already? 

And why the _hell is_  the Falcs' team leadership clustered around talking about it? 

The players give a collective murmur of confirmation. 

"Good. It's been assumed that he'd sign another long-term contract with them, but Tom and I are hearing rumors that may not be the case. If the opportunity comes up to offer him a contract, we'd need to move fast and we need to know if you'd even want him here. If it's not worth looking into, we stop the conversation now and it never leaves this room." 

Fuck. _What?_

"Yes," St. Martin says immediately. "Are you kidding? Of course yes. We'd be idiots not to try to get him." 

That's...unexpected. Encouraging, though. 

"Head coach of Aces says Parson is hard to work with, not team player," contradicts one of the others. Guy something. "Maybe not good for team dynamic." 

That's more along the lines of what Kent was expecting. He _knows_ he's good at hockey, knows he's one of the best, but he also knows his reputation.

"Mike Nadeau is a card-carrying asshole," Robinson chimes in. "Wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire, and he's resented Parson from day one." 

"So that's a yes from you, Thirdy?" the woman asks. She seems to be taking notes, maybe tallying votes. 

"Didn't say that yet," Robinson says. "Where do we see him fitting into our structure? Zimmermann's our first line center, there's no way Parson'd be okay with moving down to second." 

Damn _right_ he wouldn't. Kent knows his value on the ice. 

"He'd play right wing," says a familiar voice. Alexei's eyes shift to Jack, standing uncomfortably in the back corner. He's looking at the ground, but when he clears his throat and starts talking again, his words are steady. "Eh, George? That's what you're thinking. Put him on my wing, try to recreate the Zimmermann-Parson no-look one-timer." 

"The thought had crossed my mind," George says with a wry smile. "You're pretty tight-lipped about your history with Parson, Jack, and your private business is your private business. I'm not going to ask questions, I just need to know if you can play with Parson again." 

Alexei's head is spinning with excitement-caution-hope-nerves, and Kent's head is all of that plus a lot more. They wait for Jack to answer, although Kent can bet what he's going to say. Kent and Jack haven't spoken since the game in November, and the time they spoke before _that_  was at the Samwell party. Kent's got a pretty clear idea of what Jack thinks of him. 

"This team gave me a second chance when I wasn't sure I'd get one," Jack says slowly. "I think. I think that if Kent is interested, if. He deserves that too, I think. A second chance. If that's what he's looking for." 

Kent is no longer sure if this is real, or if he's had some sort of psychotic break and is hallucinating. 

"Noted," George says. "Alexei?" 

Kent can't pay enough attention to what Mashkov is feeling through the hurricane of his own emotions, but he hears Mashkov's spoken answer clear as a bell. 

"Would be nice to only worry about Parson running into other goalies, not Snowy. Is okay with me." 

"Dude, come on!" Swoops calls from down the tunnel, startling Kent back into his body. "I've been waiting at the car for, like, ten minutes! You owe me pizza." 

Kent has a full-body shiver before he can make his legs carry him in Swoops' direction. "I'm pretty sure the guy asking for help moving is the one who provides the pizza, in most cases." 

"You're helping me put shit in boxes, not carrying couches up three flights of stairs. And even if you were, you should thank me for it. Getting kinda flabby in your old age." 

"You're such an asshole," Kent sighs. "I'm going to miss the shit out of you." 

 

**[ALEXEI, JUNE 7]**  

Alexei doesn't remember that he's hurt when he wakes up the day after game four, so he tries to roll out of bed and immediately sets off at least three different alarms. A nurse comes rushing into the hospital room, and he remembers: Start of the second. Penalty kill. Pile-up near the blue line, a heavy/sharp impact against his left leg, and Loops' panicked voice in his ear saying, "Shit, _shit_ , Mashkov, I'm so sorry, are you okay?"  

He remembers the grim expressions on the trainers' faces, the ride to the hospital, the MRI, and the diagnosis. 

Torn meniscus. Out for months. 

He soothes the nurse by promising to behave and tugs his phone closer by its cord to turn it on. He has dozens of missed calls and texts; he'd managed to talk to his parents for a few minutes and texted Sabina, but had otherwise just wanted to shut down and try again tomorrow. Since tomorrow is now today, he pulls up the most important threads. 

_Zimmboni @ 10:17PM: We won. Series is tied. Hope you're doing okay, Bendell said they took you in for an MRI?_

_Zimmboni @ 11:34PM: Heard about the meniscus. Hope you're doing okay. Bitty sends his love. I'll come visit in the morning._

_B @ 11:34PM: Oh my gosh Tater, I'm so sorry. You'll get through this!!_

_B @ 11:35PM: Please let me or Jack know if you need anything at all. Jack said you'll probably come home with the team after game five, so I'm working on a care package for then._

_B @ 11:50PM: You're probably asleep by now (I hope you are!!), but since Jack has your spare key in his apartment, I thought I might stop by your house and get it ready for you? Just picking things up off the floor that you might trip over, moving furniture so that it's easier to navigate, stocking your freezer with some meals, things like that. I'm happy to do it, let me know!_

_Sava @ 9:41PM:_ ебля

_Sava @ 9:41PM: <<Are you okay?>>_

_Missed Call from Sava @ 10:05PM_

_Sava @ 11:49PM: <<Zimmermann called to give me an update. Get some rest, I'll hold the rest of the Russians off. Call when you can.>>_

 

He types out careful responses to all three, takes a breather, and pulls up a fourth thread, one he really hadn't expected. 

 

_Parse @ 9:41PM: Holy shit are you okay_

_Parse @ 9:42PM: Jesus that looked awful, they keep showing the replay and I can't not cringe_

_Parse @ 9:45PM: I'm sure there are a million trainers in your face right now and everything probably seems awful, just remember that injuries are temporary_

_Parse @ 9:48PM: Jack just scored! You guys are up by 1 with 8 min left in the third_

_Parse @ 9:51PM: Markham got ejected for game misconduct, he tried to fight Poots and Poots was having none of it_

_Parse @ 10:05PM: Final score Falcs 4, Schooners 3_

_Parse @ 10:05PM: Let me know how things go. You've got this._

Alexei thinks for a long couple minutes. 

 

_You @ 8:11AM: Thanks for updates on game. News telling about my knee?_

He expects to wait for a response — it's early in Las Vegas — but his phone pings almost immediately. 

 

_Parse @ 8:12AM: Nothing specific, just the usual lower body injury runaround. You okay?_

_You @ 8:12AM: Torn meniscus. Out for many months. Why you awake?_

_Parse @ 8:13AM: Shit. I'm sorry. That'll heal on its own, though, right?_

_Parse @ 8:13AM: I'm in Michigan for a few days. Came out to help Swoops move, but we're mostly just making forts out of empty boxes_

There's a picture attached to the last message: Jeff Troy, tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration, applying packaging tape to a wall of cardboard that nearly reaches the ceiling. 

 

_You @ 8:13AM: Doctors not 100% yet, but probably no surgery. Rest and rehab._

_Parse @ 8:14AM: You can't rest, you're going to have a Cup to celebrate_

_You @ 8:14AM: You jinx!!_

_Parse @ 8:14AM: It's not a jinx, it's just a fact. Your team played like they were on fire after you got hurt. They keep playing like that, the Schooners don't stand a chance_

One of Alexei's doctors bustles into the room, wanting to talk about plans for the day, so Alexei puts his phone down for a bit. After that, a few of his teammates and the coaching staff come by to check in. Alexei's phone continues to ping incessantly with updates the whole time, so he eventually turns off the notification noise. Then he takes a nap, because pain medication always makes him sleepy. 

 

_Parse @ 8:17AM: If you have time in between all your celebrating, you could come out to Vegas with Peaches again this summer for a bit? I'm having a party for the guys over the Fourth of July, I know they'd be stoked to see you_

_Parse @ 8:17AM: I realize that I just invited you to stay at Peaches' house but it's not like he'll be mad about it lol_

_Parse @ 9:42AM: You're probably busy with hospital stuff, but sorry if I made this weird and you don't actually want to see me_

_Parse @ 10:10AM: Sorry. Hope news about your knee continues to be as non-shitty as it can be_

 

+++

 

_You @ 11:22AM: Will talk to Sava!! Ask about visit to desert for Parson birthday. You take me to see Britney Spears?_

 

**[KENT, JUNE 12]**

Kent watches the Falconers win the Stanley Cup from a sports bar in Vegas, surrounded by his teammates and strangers. 

He's happy for Jack. And Mashkov, and Snow. St. Martin. Robinson. They've worked their asses off. Three years ago, the Falcs weren't even contenders. 

He'd _prefer_ that the Aces had won. Obviously. But if they couldn't, Kent figures the Falcs are probably the team he'd choose next (with a close second in the Washington Caps, because Ovechkin is sure to be the most entertaining media roller coaster in history if his team ever figures their shit out enough to pull out a championship). Jack looks good. Happy. Healthy. The contrast between this Jack Zimmermann and the Zimms Kent remembers from when they were kids is...remarkable. 

This Jack can also pull off playoff stubble, which is _unfair_. Kent still just gets patchy peach fuzz that's itchy as fuck. 

It's strange, to have reached this peace with Jack without having actually _talked_ to Jack. Maybe that's what's making in work, that it's only in Kent's head, but it's a place to start. He's getting along with Mashkov, too; they've kept up a steady trickle of texts since Mashkov's injury, and he confirmed that he's coming to Vegas for a few days in July. Kent was once in love with Jack, and never really had the chance to be in love with Mashkov the way he should've been in love with his soulmate, but maybe. Maybe things can still be okay. Kent could use more friends.

It's nice to have this part of his life feel a tiny bit under control, because the hockey part of Kent's life is careening towards something bad. It's not like Kent wants to come out any time soon, he's not insane, but he doesn't want to sign something that he'd be breaching if he ever _did_ decide to come out. Or even date a guy on the DL. Part of Kent thinks that what Nadeau and Harris are trying to pull here is probably at least a little illegal, and his agent keeps asking if he wants to get lawyers involved, but it seems like that'd be a step down the path to coming out that's kinda irreversible, right? He'd also really, really like in writing that they'll try to find a first-line center so Kent can get back to the wing where he belongs, and he'd like two guaranteed As to take some of the weight, but Harris says he won't give those to Kent unless Kent agrees to what Kent's been calling the "no-homo clause" in his head. They're rapidly approaching a stalemate. 

"Uh," says Scrappy. He's on the bar stool next to Kent "Uh. Hey, Parser. You see this?" 

See what, post-game coverage? Kent gestures at the TVs surrounding them. "It's on the screens, Scraps." 

"Naw, look," Scrappy says. He holds his phone out to Kent. "It's all over social." 

Jack Zimmermann is kissing his boyfriend at center ice. Kent's mind goes blank. 

Carl, looking over Kent's shoulder, starts saying shit that makes Kent want to deck his own teammate, and that _rage_ , weirdly enough, is what gets Kent's brain moving. He shoves away from the bar. 

"Shut the fuck up right now," he says. He keeps his voice friendly, keeps a smile on his face, and pushes right into Carl's space. Carl's got six inches and probably 50 pounds on Kent, but Kent's got the intensity of a thousand suns in his belly at the moment. Jack came out. _Jack came out_. Jack won the Cup and he came out in the same breath, and his life is going to be magic and vitriol for the foreseeable future and there's not much Kent can do about the latter, but he can do this. He can make sure that _his fucking teammates_  don't contribute. "The night's over for you. Get an Uber, go home." 

Carl tries to laugh it off, but there's something uncomfortable in his eyes. The whole team's seen Kent smile while eviscerating reporters. "What the fuck, Parser? All I said was —." 

"I heard what you said." Kent makes eye contact with the bartender, points to Carl, signals to close out his tab. "So did everyone within fifteen feet of you. Keep saying shit like that, see how long it takes the league to slap a fine on you that'll make the one they gave Wideman look like a joke." 

Carl's eyes narrow, and Kent is suddenly very, very aware of everyone around them. "Don't tell me all those rumors about you and Zimmermann from the Q are _true_. You queer too, Parson? You _jealous_ of Zimmermann's new twink, wish he was still fucking you?" 

Annnnd there it is. 

( _It's better for your career if you distance yourself from Jack_ , says Bob Zimmermann, and _What do you want the story to be tomorrow?_ asks Jack, and _You are responsible for your own actions_ , says Indira.) 

"If Jack and I didhook up in the Q — when we were minors and playing hockey ten hours a day and _living at his parents' house_ , you moron — it was still better sex than any you've ever had," Kent says calmly. He's not smiling anymore. Benny snorts beers out of his nose. "Go home. Call PR. Stay off Twitter." 

 

_You @ 11:06PM: Congrats on the Cup, man, and congrats on your boy_

_You @ 11:06PM: Not to put more on you, but I may have just not denied rumors about me and you from the Q as strongly as I maybe should've_

_You @ 11:07PM: We should maybe talk_

 

+++

 

_Jack Zimmermann @ 7:14AM: Press conference with the Falcs in a few minutes. I'll call you later._

_Incoming call from Jack Zimmermann @ 9:43AM_

 

**[ALEXEI, JUNE 13]**

Media training before the press conference is ridiculous. Alexei's not hungover, because he knows not to mix his pain meds with alcohol (okay, he had _one drink._ And some champagne), but Marty and Thirdy are definitely suffering and having the entire PR team grill them with expected questions and approved answers isn't how Alexei ever thought he'd spend the morning after his team won the Stanley Cup. 

He'll do it, though. For Jack and Bitty, for how happy they'd looked, for the kids Alexei remembers from youth leagues in Russia who couldn't hide who they were and had to stop playing, for what this might mean. Alexei can't fix everything, but he can do this. He can stand next to Jack and be proud of what his team accomplished.

(His agent is _pretty_ sure that Alexei being an ally won't cause problems back home. Pretty sure.) 

He's prepared for the questions that get directed at him, but he's tired and nervous and his knee is killing him, so his words don't come out as smoothly as he would've liked. Jack gives him a little smile, though, and the next question Alexei gets is about his injury, so he thinks he did okay. 

It's hours later before they're finally allowed to leave. Tater's dead on his feet and not really paying attention as he follows Jack out of the building through some seldom-used side door — Marty and Thirdy had gone out the front to draw media fire — so when Jack suddenly stops walking, Alexei doesn't notice right away and crutches directly into Jack's back. 

There's someone waiting for them, which is fairly normal. Fans will wait around for hours, hoping for a chance to spot their favorite player, and they _did_ just win the Cup. Alexei probably could've expected this. 

What Alexei could _not_ have expected was how Jack was going to speak to this person. 

"What are you doing here," Jack says. His voice is flat, the type of flat designed to hide anger and shock. 

"Aren't you supposed to be polite?" The man asks. He's average height, average weight, smiling, and standing there with his hands in his pockets he _shouldn't_ look threatening to two professional hockey players, but he does. There's something familiar about him that Alexei can't quite put his finger on. "Canadian and all." 

"What are you _doing_ here," Jack repeats. It's still flat, but emotion is starting to peek through. Alexei tries to ask Jack what's going on, but he waves him off.

"Didn't think you'd recognize me," says the man. "Seeing as we never met. What'd he do, show you pictures? Tell you stories?" 

"What," Jack says, grinding his teeth at this point, "Are you doing here." 

"Trying to get in touch with my son, actually. I've been trying for years, but the kids didn't have phones yet when I left, and my wife —." 

"Ex-wife," Jack interjects, practically growling at this point. It's...alarming. Jack doesn't get like this, not off the ice. 

"Ex-wife," the man agrees, still trying to keep things light. "Seems to have changed hers. Can't find addresses. Saw your face all over the news, remembered hearing stories about you and my son playing hockey together back in the day, figured you might be willing to put me in touch. I'd like to see my family again." 

"I'm not telling you _anything,_ " Jack says. "And I know for a fact that all three of them have restraining orders against you." 

The man's face changes, drops into something less pleasant. "He blew everything out of proportion, always did. He plays hockey, for Christ's sake, kid needed to learn how to take a hit —." 

"Not from his father," Jack thunders, fumbling with his phone. "Not from his father, not when he was a _child_. I'm calling the police." 

The man turns on his heel and leaves before Jack can even unlock the device, and Jack stares after him. Alexei lets him think for a moment, then cautiously asks, "Who was that man? Is everything okay?" 

"That was Kent Parson's dad," Jack says, placing a call and holding the phone up to his ear. "He's. Not a good man." 

Alexei's stomach drops. He'd been well on the way to making that connection himself, but hearing it out loud, knowing that he just came within spitting distance of the man who used to abuse his soulmate —

"Pick up," Jack says into the phone. "Pick up, pick up — _calice_. Kent, it's Jack again. Something just happened, something else, it — it's about your dad. Call me back." 

Alexei stares after Parse's father, debates giving chase as quickly as his crutches will allow.  

Jack doesn't know that Parse is Alexei's unrequited soulmate. The match went unrequited long before Alexei met Jack, so at first it wasn't relevant, and then it was apparent that Parse wasn't a topic Jack was comfortable discussing, and then Alexei started having mis-timed soulminutes that are still confusing the hell out of him. The first thing Jack had heard when he broke up their almost-fight last season was Parse calling Alexei a coward, and Alexei never wanted to embarrass himself badly enough to fill Jack in on the rest. _Kent Parson was in love with you when you were both juniors, and I know this because I was in his head for a minute once a year, because he's my soulmate, or at least he was, he doesn't want me because he has an actual requited match and I'm not it._

So Jack doesn't know, and that's on purpose, but just this once Alexei wonders if it's been a mistake to keep it from him. From Jack's perspective, Alexei is probably overreacting; he's watching Alexei like he might explode. 

Jack's phone buzzes and he grabs it out of his pocket like the world will end if he doesn't answer immediately. He calms down when he sees the screen, though, and just says, "Bittle needs us to pick up flour and eggs on our way back. C'mon." 

 

**[KENT, JULY 4]**

Kent hasn’t had a soulminute on his birthday in years, but it’s somehow not a surprise when he pops into Mashkov’s head while prepping for the party. It’s a calm, peaceful morning at Peaches' house; Mashkov is helping Peaches’ wife wash dishes and singing along to some song that’s coming through a nearby speaker. It’s in Russian, but ridiculously catchy, and Mashkov keeps wiggling his hips like he’s trying to do some boy band dance move. Peaches’ youngest daughter, the only one who still lives at home, is recording the whole thing on her phone; Mashkov mugs for the camera and shimmies harder. 

“Mashkov?” Katie asks when Kent comes back online. “Still?” 

"We're friends," Kent says, immediately defensive. "We're allowed to be friends. I could use more friends who aren't on my hockey team. Indira says so." 

"Stop using advice from your therapist as an excuse to get you out of conversations that make you uncomfortable." 

"Remember that time I said you weren't mean enough to be a lawyer? I take that back." 

Kent squawks when Katie throws a dishtowel at him. 

It's nice to have her here. 

 

+++

 

Kent’s manning the grill for most of the afternoon, so people find him there to say hello when they come in. It’s a steady stream of teammates, neighbors, friends, everyone’s families, a couple dogs, and Katie’s bringing him a cold beer every now and then. It’s a good day. 

Peaches and Mashkov walk in together, of course, and it jolts something loose in Kent’s chest. He studiously turns back to the grill, pretending he hadn’t noticed them arrive — what if this was an awful idea? They’ve only seen each other once since the game in November. Their texts have been friendly, and surely Mashkov wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be, but what if there’s too much shit between them to ever be okay? — but then Mashkov come bouncing over as best he can on his crutches with a smile and a booming voice. 

“Kent Parson! Happy birthday! Is good to see!” 

“Glad you could make it, Mashkov,” Kent says drily. He gives a two-fingered salute to Peaches, who nods in his direction and beelines for the kitchen. “Wasn’t sure you’d have time before taking the Cup to Russia.” 

Mashkov’s grin is enormous. “Call me Alexei! Leave for Moscow two weeks, have plenty of time for celebrate here. I borrow Sava for celebrate in Moscow, he borrow me for celebrate captain, is fair.” 

“Eh, today’s not about me,” Kent says. “It’s nice to have people around for my birthday, but it’s more for the holiday. Just a coincidence. It’s good for the guys to be together, now that we’ve had a few weeks to calm down after the way our season ended.” 

“Good also for them to see you, with so many rumors of trades,” Mashkov says, dropping his voice to a whisper as Carl's wife comes by to pick up a bratwurst. 

“It’s not a secret. Everyone knows that I’m in contract negotiations, and they know it hasn’t been smooth sailing. They know there's interest from other teams. Let me know if you need anything else, Melissa.”

“Am surprise, is all,” Mashkov says after Melissa walks away. “When you small — more small than now,” he adds with a wink, “You punch mean boy on schoolyard, and I’m think, 'This Kent Parson. He does not like bullies.’” 

Kent chokes on his beer. Apparently this is a thing they talk about now. “That — that was one of your soulminutes? Me fighting that kid?” 

Alexei makes a seesawing motion with his hand. “Not sure if call ‘fight.’ You very bad at fighting. Still bad.” 

“Rude,” Kent says. “And Harlan Harris isn’t a middle school bully. He’s the guy with power over my entire career.” 

“Maybe,” Mashkov allows. He picks up a stray soccer ball that Peaches’ kids lost track of and tosses it back in their direction. “Also bully, though. And when I see this small Kent Parson, I think, ‘He does not run away when things difficult.’” 

“It’s not _running away_ ,” Kent says. “It’s cutting my losses. Harris isn’t the only problem.” 

“Ah, so more than one problem, is good time to run.” 

“Fuck you, Mashkov,” Kent says, but there’s no heat behind it. He flips a couple burgers. 

“Call me Alexei,” Mashkov insists, and for some reason the look in his eyes flips a setting in Kent’s brain that leaves him a little cotton-mouthed. Alexei continues, "No shame in leave. Try somewhere new. I try two cities before find home. But question: You leave, what happen to next guy?” 

Kent frowns. “What?” 

“After you,” Alexei explains. He drains the rest of his beer, no doubt trying to seem nonchalant. “Who they make captain? They trade for someone else, make him captain? They do this to him, too, maybe, and maybe him not handle as well. Maybe not as strong. Maybe team is hurt. I know Swoops leave, is sad. I know Vandal traded, Torts retire, Barley retire soon. But still have many teammates — goalie, Scraps, Tracker, rookies. I think if team hurt, Kent Parson hurt, even if Kent Parson not here.” 

He shrugs, casual. “Is just thought. I not expert in Aces. Not expert in Kent Parson.” He sets down his empty bottle, picks up his crutches, and heads towards the pool. 

Kent stares. 

[The other thing Alexei used to think when seeing Small Kent Parson: He won’t defend himself, but he’ll fight to the death to protect someone else.] 

 

**[ALEXEI, JULY 14]**

Alexei's Cup Day passes in a haze of happiness. His family's there, of course, and Sava, and his whole hometown turns out — it seems like every town he'd _ever_ played in shows up in full force, come to think of it, and all the teams he used to play on — and a heavily-pregnant Sabina arrives with Demyan and Dalina in tow. Ovi and Malkin swing by. There's a parade and _so much food_ , and when people mention that Alexei sat next to Jack Zimmermann in a press conference and didn't condemn him for homosexuality, they say it like it's a good thing. 

Alexei is happy. He's happy and distracted and busy, and he doesn't bother keeping track of his phone for a few hours. 

 

_Parse @ 4:31PM: Happy Cup Day, don't do anything I wouldn't do_

_Parse @ 4:31PM: Heading into a meeting with the president of the Aces in thirty minutes, I'm going to throw up_

_Parse @ 4:31PM: I've only been in a room with this guy three times in my entire career, I can't do this, this is all your fault, why did you make me think I could do this_

_Parse @ 4:32PM: I'm good at scoring goals, sure, but there are a million guys good at scoring goals, this is insane_

_Parse @ 4:57PM: Here's to not running away without a fight_

There's a picture attached. It's a draft of Parse's contract, from the looks of it, resting in Parse's lap, and it has been _heavily_ edited. It's covered in strike-throughs and hand-written amendments and additions in blue and red ink. There's a little stick-figure doodle in one corner of Parse with a hockey stick. 

Alexei checks the time. It's been more than three hours since Kent's meeting started. 

 

_You @ 10:34PM: Katie help with suggestions? Your handwriting too terrible for blue ink._

_You @ 10:34PM: You are Kent Parson. Ask for what you deserve._

+++

 

_Parse @ 1:13AM: Holy shit holy shit holy shit, you will not believe what is happening over here_

 

**[KENT, JULY 29]**

The Aces present Kent with a seven-year contract that doesn't have any clauses in it about Kent's sexuality or soulmate. He signs it, and the guy who countersigns for the franchise is the Aces' president instead of the GM. 

Because the Aces don't have a GM anymore. Or a head coach. 

It's been an eventful few weeks. 

"And there we go," Johnson says, handing the executed contract to an assistant to make copies with a flourish. "Fucking superb, Parson, really. You're happy?" 

Kent is happy. He's in a daze, but he's happy. 

"Great. Okay, now that that's done, we've got a lot of work to do," Johnson says. He plants a hand on Kent's shoulder and steers him out of the conference room. "You're staying in town until pre-season, right?" 

"Yes. Uh, sir. Yes, I'll be here. Got a trip out to Boston for a few days, but it's short." 

"Good, that's good. I have interviews lined up with head coach candidates all next week, and I'd like you to be there if you're interested." 

If he's _interested?_ "Yes," Kent practically yelps. "Yes, I. Just tell me when and where." 

"My assistant will email you the details." They arrive outside Johnson's office. "I'll handle the first few rounds of GM interviews myself, then I'd like you and other team leaders to meet the final candidate before we make an offer. Now that I know about what's been going on under my nose, I don't want to risk a backslide. You're my guy on the ground. Keep me accountable." 

Kent nods. He doesn't think his brain is working enough to trust it with words right now. 

"Good," Johnson says. He opens the door to his office. "My brother isn't the only one who can help resolve a plot point." 

"What?" 

"Nothing. Have a good day, Parson. We'll talk soon." 

 

**[KENT, AUGUST 16]**

"Devin," Kent says. "Tad. Garrett. Brick. Brock? Brayden. Caden." 

"I regret inviting you to this," Katie says. "Also, you've played hockey with people named at least half of those names." 

"Hockey is the whitest sport on the planet," Kent says, dodging another 1L. At least, he thinks it's a first year law student: Katie had said that _excited_ means 1L, _exhausted_  means 2L, and _resigned_ means 3L. "Except maybe curling. And we're not talking about hockey, we're talking about how the entire student body just walked out of that catalog of clothes with embroidered whales on them." 

Katie raises an eyebrow. "Got something against whales, now?" 

Kent rolls his eyes at her and takes in the scene as they cross into what's probably a quad (Kent doesn't know, he didn't go to college). It's flooded with Harvard Law students, current and past, kicking off the new school year and probably, like, _networking_ or some other corporate buzzword that makes Kent throw up in his mouth a little. This isn't exactly how he'd prefer to spend his Saturday — he came out to meet Katie's soulmates, both of whom are charming and appropriately enamored of his sister, but Raleigh had to stay in Boston for work and Theresa's got an internship that she can't be away from for too long — but he loves Katie, so he's here. Luckily Kent bought tickets for their mom and Aunt Helen to fly out for dinner and a show tonight in the city, so there's a strict timeline on this shindig. He checks his watch; only an hour and a half before they'll leave. 

Katie goes off to do her thing, leaving Kent to fend for himself. He's great at schmoozing as Kent Parson, Captain of the Las Vegas Aces, but something tells him that most of the people standing on this quad (Why don't they just call it a lawn? It's not even rectangular) have no idea who the fuck he is, and wouldn't care even if they told him. It's kinda nice, actually. 

He snags a bottle of water and a carton of pistachios (seriously, who _are_ these people) from one of the carts, finds a shady patch of grass, and settles in to wait. It's a great day out and the ambient noise doesn't bother him, so he might be able to swing a quick nap, but he should probably respond to Johnson first since they're evidently _texting buddies_ now. 

Not that Kent minds! He kinda figured that after heat from the contract mess and the firings settled down, Johnson would essentially ghost him, but that hasn't happened yet. Johnson seems to want his opinion on _everything,_ not just the head coach and GM options. He asks Kent about the trainers, about the draft prospects three seasons from now, about tearing down the old practice rink and building a new one. Weirdly, though, it doesn't make Kent feel like he has any additional responsibility. Johnson still makes the decisions and executes the plans, he just wants Kent's input along the way. 

Kent's several Google searches into how to answer Johnson's question about whether or not he'd want to move their AHL affiliate physically closer to Las Vegas when a nearby voice stage whispers, "Bro. Is that _Kent Parson_?" 

The three people Kent sees when he looks up from his phone are quite possibly the last three he'd expect to see at a Harvard Law event: Jack Zimmermann, Alexei Mashkov, and that old teammate of Jack's Kent met during his visits to Samwell. 

"Shitty," Kent says warmly, pushing himself up out of the grass and brushing off his palms. "What happened to your flow, dude?" 

"I conformed to the pressures of society." Shitty wraps Kent in a hug that lifts his feet off the ground. "Only temporary, though, never fear. What brings you to these hallowed halls?" 

"Katie is here!" Alexei says, which surprises Kent a little — Katie and Alexei met at Kent's party in July, but he didn't figure they'd talked much. Katie was still pissed at Alexei over the whole soulmate situation, as far as Kent knew.  "Third year, yes? Hello, Kent Parson, is good to see." 

"Good to see you, too," Kent says honestly. "And no crutches?" 

"None!" Alexei gestures down his whole body, and Kent inadvertently follows the motion with his eyes and flushes just a little. It's hot out here, okay? "Still wear brace for many weeks, but am healing fast. Maybe not back for start of season, but soon." 

Kent knows most of this already from their texting, but it's great to hear it again in Alexei's loud, friendly voice anyway. "That's amazing, man. Need you at your best so when we beat you this year, it's all fair and square." 

"Keep dreaming," Jack says. "How've you been?" 

"Good," Kent says. "Busy, really busy, but good. Ready to hit the ground running this season, you know? We're bringing in new blood at a bunch of different levels in the franchise, it feels like a fresh start." 

Shitty, Jack, and Alexei look at each other, then Shitty says, "Bro. We are not the media. Nice soundbite, though." 

"You're all assholes," Kent scowls, lighthearted, and the other three laugh, and Kent thinks that he could maybe live in this moment forever. 

And because Kent's match is apparently still a pissed off little shit, that's precisely when it chooses to strike. 

Kent's looking at himself through Alexei's eyes. Not for the first time — Alexei had watched Kent's Cup Day coverage that one time — but it's different when it's all happening in person. It's surreal and vivid all at once, and Alexei is noticing these details like that Kent's snapback has a couple pieces of grass on it, and that there are spots of color high on his cheeks, and Alexei _wants._

Alexei wants Kent. In a couple different ways. His head is happy-desire-friend-care-aroused-pride-content-love, and it's too much for Kent to make sense of, but he _does_. Alexei wants him. 

He hears Jack ask, "You okay there, Kent?" because Kent's body is just standing there like an empty puppet. 

Kent's body doesn't say anything, because it can't, and the other guys all trade another look. Alexei's head takes on a spin of concern. 

"Parse?" Shitty tries again. Then, "He's not — he's not having a _soulminute,_ is he?" 

Alexei's head goes _nuts_ at that. 

"It's not his birthday," Jack says immediately. "Could he be having a stroke?" 

"Wrong symptoms," Shitty says. "He's not seizing. This looks like a soulminute, Jack." 

"It's not his birthday," Jack says again. 

"Yeah, bro, don't think that matters right now. Help me get him sitting down." 

They manhandle Kent to a nearby bench. It attracts Katie's attention, and she comes fast-walking over. "What the fuck is going on? Kent? Are you okay?"

"Oh, Katie _Parson_ ," Shitty says. "Didn't occur to me that you were the same type of Parson as this guy." 

"Later, Knight," she says. "Someone tell me what's happening." 

"He stopped responding," Jack said. "We think — Shitty thinks —." 

"Looks like a soulminute, even though it's not his birthday," Shitty finishes. 

"Of fucking course," Katie sighs. "Yeah. He's been having rogue minutes for a while now. I'll take it from here, guys, thanks." 

Kent is panicking a little. He needs this minute to end _immediately._

"Rogue minutes," Alexei says carefully. Things are swirly in his head. "Meaning, not on birthday? This happens before?" 

"A couple times, yeah," Katie says, distracted. She puts a hand on Kent's body's forehead, like he'll be having a fever or something. She's worried, _really_ worried to be fidgeting like that, and a worried Katie doesn't always think through everything she's going to say. She and Kent are, as Shitty said, the same type of Parson. 

"Didn't think that was possible," Jack breathes. 

Seriously, Kent needs to get out of Mashkov's head before someone says something they can't take back, something like —

"His soulmate rejected the match," Katie babbles. "It happened a while ago, but the match never nullified all the way, and now he's getting these fucking minutes —." 

Alexei's stomach jumps into his throat. "Wait. Wait. Kent Parson's soulmate reject him? Why would she do this?" 

There it is again, that _stupid_ lie, _don't say it, Katie, don't say it_ _—_

"She? What are you talking about?" Katie demands, only half paying attention, and Kent has the distinctly weird experience of watching things click together for Jack through Alexei's eyes 

Jack has the decency to look at Kent's zombie body like he's asking for permission before turning to Alexei. "Kent's soulmate is male, Tater. He's known that for a long time. You were great about me and Bitty, but not everyone is like that." 

It rocks through Alexei's entire body and it just keeps coming, like taking a nosedive off your surfboard and getting knocked around by waves and currents while you try to find the surface. One of the waves knocks Kent out of Alexei's head, and he blinks up at the four people standing around him and says, "Um." 

 

**[ALEXEI, AUGUST 16]**

Alexei hears Katie ask Parse if he's okay, and he hears Jack ask Parse if he's seen a doctor about his non-birthday minutes, and none of it sinks in. The only thing Alexei can focus on, the only thing that feels real, is that Parse's soulmate is male. 

"You," Alexei croaks. Parse's eyes lock on his, blue-green-grey and nervous. "Your soulmate. Is a man?" 

"Um," Parse says again. 

"It's fine, Kenny," Jack says. "Alexei's fine. He won't tell anyone." 

"I tried to tell you," Parse says, so quiet Alexei can barely hear him. "Last season, after the game, I tried to say — but you said you didn't want it, said you were happy that it was unrequited." 

"What is happening," Shitty whispers. Katie is kneeling on the ground next to Kent, hands over her mouth. 

"Thought you have other soulmate," Alexei chokes. "Thought Kent Parson have beautiful girl soulmate, Alexei match unrequited. Try to, to stay away. Try to dislike. Try to make match null, to not hurt." 

"I didn't have soulminutes for _years_ ," Parse says. He stands up, takes a hesitant step towards Alexei. "You pulled away so hard, I thought — I thought you _hated_ me, I thought _my_ match was unrequited. Why didn't you just tell me _before,_ you knew it was me _before_ —." 

"Am scared," Alexei admits. Everything in him feels flayed open and honest, and he knows that this is probably the last chance he has to get this right. "In Russia, is hard to be. Hard for me to have male soulmate. Before I know you, I think Kent Parson maybe not good person. I think you maybe dangerous for me in Russia, for my family." 

"Jesus," Parse breathes. He takes another step, carrying him past where Jack and Shitty are standing. Shitty's jaw has dropped open; Jack's is ground shut. "I wouldn't — Alexei, I would never do _anything_ to put you in danger, you or anyone else."  

"Know that now," Alexei says. "Am just taking long time to learn, is all. Hard to get to know, when only have sixty seconds." 

"You should have _told me_ ," Parse insists. He's close enough now to touch, and somehow, _somehow_ Alexei is the one who gets to touch him, maybe, so he reaches out. Parse takes his hand immediately, tangling their fingers together. "We could've gotten to know each other. _Years_ ago, Alexei." 

"I know," Alexei says, and then, from his very soul, "I am sorry, Parse." 

Parse looks down at their entwined fingers, then looks up and offers Alexei a hesitant smile. "You should probably start calling me Kent." 

"Oh my _God_ ," Katie interrupts. "My heart is exploding. You're both such idiots." 

 

**[KENT, OCTOBER 8]**

"Nah, he's a good kid," Kent says, kicking the door closed behind him as Kit comes padding over to say hello. "I think he's just trying to figure out what the boundaries are. He's trying to step over the line, so he'll know where it is next time." 

"He should behave," Alexei says. He sounds a little tired, but that's just how he sounds when Kent catches him in the middle of his nighttime routine. He's probably in bed already, book propped up against a pillow. He was probably waiting for Kent to call, because it turns out that Alexei Mashkov's a little bit of a sap. "Rookies should respect captain." 

Kent refills Kit's water. "I don't have a problem with having to earn it. At least Lightfoot talks to me, Lulu's still freezing up whenever I'm in the room. How was PT?" 

"Same. Gretchen say one more week, then we see. Is same every time." He's frustrated, and Kent gets it. Everyone thought he'd be back on the ice by the end of September. 

"That sucks, but I'm sure it's for the best in the long run," Kent says. He digs a thing of leftover chicken out of the back of the fridge and starts eating with his fingers. "Don't want to go back too early." 

"I know this, I know this. But is hard to watch team, not be able to skate." 

"You could," Kent starts. He swallows his chicken, throat suddenly dry. "You could come visit? If the team's okay with it?" 

Alexei's quiet for a few breaths. "Maybe. Could ask Sava if —." 

"No, uh. I meant. You could stay with me? If you wanted?" 

"Kent Parson, you ask me to move in?" Alexei sounds amused. 

"No!" Kent definitely does not squeak. Alexei chuckles a little, and Kent feels his heart calm down a little. "Jerk. You know what I mean." 

"Finally take me to see Britney Spears?" 

"That's more of a six-month anniversary thing," Kent says without thinking, because his brain is apparently fractured, and he immediately starts backpedaling. "Not that we'll still be together then! Or. Um. Not that we _won't_ still be together then. I just. Um. Help?" 

Alexei is definitely laughing at him now. "Kent. Breathe. Is okay. This is going very well, yes?" 

"Yes?" 

"Yes," Alexei says, firmly. "We are still having many conversations to have. Many things to work out. I think, I come to see you, we keep talking." 

"Talking," Kent repeats. "Just, ah. Just talking?" 

"What is wrong with talking?" 

"Nothing, nothing, it's just —." 

(They haven't even kissed yet, is the thing. Everything was too soon while they were in Boston, and then Kent had to get back to Vegas for the next round of head coach interviews and they haven't been in the same city since. Kent's coming off a long, long dry spell and he'd like to climb Alexei like a tree, is what he's saying, and he doesn't think Alexei is _opposed_ to the idea but if there's one thing they've learned from rehashing their previous interactions over the past several weeks, it's that the two of them need to be very, very direct with each other and confirm that they're on the same page, like, all the time forever.)

"— I want to climb you like a tree," Kent blurts, and he's thankful this isn't FaceTime because _no one_ needs to know how hard Kent blushes. 

"Climb like tree," Alexei echoes. "For...workout? Is this internet thing?" 

"Uh, no. It's. Uh," and then he hears Alexei laughing in the background. "You _asshole_." 

"Yes, yes, I am worst," Alexei says, and Kent pictures him sitting up a little straighter in bed when he clears his throat. "Kent. I want this too. I do. But I not come to Las Vegas for sex, not promise you sex in week. It is important. _You_ are important to me. We let happen when happen, okay? When we trust, when we are sure. Okay?" 

"Yeah," Kent says quietly. He's already head over heels for the guy, this is just pushes him a little further off that cliff. "Yeah, okay." 

 

**[ALEXEI, NOVEMBER 14]**

The first fight of their relationship happens in November. The Aces have the Rangers in two days, and Kent came over a day early to see Alexei. They're still learning about each other, still figuring out how to exist in the same space, and Alexei isn't quite sure how it happens but suddenly they're standing in his house, yelling. 

"You're being ridiculous." Kent's pacing, because Kent can't sit still when he's worked up. "It's just a charity thing. Bob invites a bunch of top players. Tons of guys from all over the league are going to be there." 

"Tons of guys not go as Kent Parson's _date_ ," Alexei snaps. "People take pictures, yes?" 

"We'd be _careful_ ," Kent retorts. "I'm not an idiot, I'm not going to slip you some tongue in front of Mario Lemieux."  

"It's too risky. Not worth risk." 

Kent rolls his eyes without breaking stride. "People know we're friends. It's _good_ for us to be seen out in public together. It's normalizing. That way if someone ever _did_ take a picture while we were on a date or something, we'd have a viable cover story. What are we going to do, never leave our apartments until we're both retired and you somehow convince your parents to move to Finland?" 

Yes, actually. That's what Alexei's been expecting. Kent doesn't want to come out right now, Alexei knows that, but he's probing for some tentative future that Alexei can't promise. On the line for Kent is hockey and peace in his private life; on the line for Alexei is his country. He tries to find the words to make Kent understand, but he can't focus because Kent won't _stop pacing_ , and when he takes a step forward to grab Kent's shoulder, Kent _flinches_.

Alexei practically throws himself backwards. He stumbles into the couch and sits down with a hard bounce. 

Kent stares at him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" 

Alexei hunches into himself, trying to seem less physically imposing. He normally likes that Kent's smaller than him, but right now it seems like a curse. "You flinch. From me." 

"Oh." Kent considers it for a second. "Force of habit, I guess. Seemed like you might. You know. Sorry about that." 

"Seem like I might _what?"_

"Hit me, Alexei, Jesus. You _know_ about my dad. It's not — it has nothing to do with you. I trust you, I know you're not going to. It's just a reflex." 

"Don't like reflex." 

Kent collapses into an armchair, all paced out. "Well, I don't like that you won't put on a monkey suit in Montreal with me and drink obscenely expensive champagne while making fun of rich people." 

Alexei considers tossing a throw pillow at him, but even that feels too violent given the topic they just skirted around. "I see your contract. You are rich person. I rich, too, just not as much as Kent Parson." 

"What better way to spend our well-earned wealth than by giving some of it away to people in need?" Kent says, making big eyes at Alexei. "Or animals in need. Maybe trees or rainforests or oceans or some shit? I don't know, I didn't read the invitation that closely." 

"Trees and rainforests and oceans very important to me," Alexei says. "Perhaps I think about it, send you with large check." 

Kent sighs, but when Alexei pats the couch cushion next to him, he launches himself over the coffee table and snuggles into Alexei's side. "You'll think about it? I don't want to push. But. You will?" 

"I will," Alexei promises. 

 

**[KENT, DECEMBER 22]**

<<Hello,>> Kent says. <<I am Kent Parson. It's very nice to meet you. Alexei has told me so much, I feel like I know you already.>>

Sabina grins at him, responds far too quickly for Kent to follow, shoves a baby into his arms, and gives him a kiss on the cheek as she brushes past him in search of Alexei. 

Kent looks down at the baby. He's pretty sure Alexei said the smallest one was a boy, and Kent can't imagine a human being smaller than this, so this is probably the boy. Filip. 

He stares up at Kent with giant brown eyes. Serious kid. 

<<Hello, Filip,>> Kent says. <<I am Kent Parson. It's very nice to meet you.>>

 

+++

 

**[EPILOGUE — ALEXEI, 36]**

By the end of his thirty-sixth birthday, Alexei knows a lot of things about his soulmate. There are four that come to mind as he smiles at the screen of his laptop, where Kent has fallen asleep with his face pressed into a hotel pillow during a Skype session. 

First, Kent is thirty-two going on four going on ninety. He watches cartoons and argues over history documentaries with Jack. He fingerpaints with Sabina's kids and grumbles about the high schoolers next door who play their music too loud. He's grumpy in the morning, and grumpy if he's up too late, and grumpy if he doesn't get a nap on game days. It's adorable.

Second, he plays hockey. He's the one of the longest-tenured captains in the NHL, actually. Alexei doesn't play hockey anymore, not professionally, but he's had a couple years to re-sort his life and he'll always, always love the game. Watching Kent play, and sometimes getting to live it through him in soulminutes, is almost as good. He had a long career, won two Stanley Cups. He's not complaining. 

Third, Alexei's soulmate is male. This has been complicated for them from the beginning, and it hasn't always been easy. They've resented each other, and the NHL, and their sport, and Russia, and they've fought and they even broke up once, when Kent was ready to come out and Alexei still wasn't. But they found their way back to each other, and Russia evolved (a little; there's still a long way to go), and Alexei's parents actually up and moved to Belgium of their own accord, and there are a dozen out players in the NHL and Kent's planning to join them soon. It's not perfect, not always, but it works. 

Fourth, he loves Alexei. Alexei knows this, beyond a shadow of a doubt, and he didn't need his annual sixty-second peek into Kent's head to confirm it. 

(It's nice to have the heads-up that Kent's planning to propose, though. Means Alexei needs to get off his ass and finally use the ring _he's_ been carrying around for three months.)

[Here's what you need to know: Alexei's been waiting for the perfect moment, because Alexei truly is a sap, but he's realizing now that there's no such thing. Life is made up of minutes, and it's up to you what you do with them. You're responsible for your own actions, as Indira would say.]

[Here's what else you need to know: Kent says yes.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all. This was supposed to be, like 5K of tiny angst and then mega-fluff. I'm bad at sticking to the plan. I will do my best to respond to comments!!
> 
> I thought about having Kent and Alexei both come out in the main timeline. I wrote it. I didn't like it. This was supposed to be light and fluffy and that ending maybe worked for that, but it didn't for what this ended up being. Everything about Kent and Alexei, both individually and as a couple, can't be solved in a few months of being together, and the Alexei I wrote wouldn't risk Russia yet, not at that point in his life. The boys still have a road to hoe, but at least now they're tackling it together. And then I tacked on an epilogue for good measure, because I'm a sucker for a happy ending. 
> 
> (And yes. I'm already working on the next installment in this series. But y'all are going to have to be patient, because Jack and Bitty's voices don't come to me as easily as Kent and Alexei's.)
> 
> Chapter Titles  
> 1\. I found me a hopeless case, and resolved to love from Sonsick by San Fermin  
> 2\. I will wait, I will wait, I will wait by the fire from Sailing by The Strumbrellas  
> 3\. You and I, we're the same from You and I by The Avett Brothers  
> 4\. You were not the same after that from Not the Same by Ben Folds  
> 5\. Had to have high, high hopes from High, High Hopes by Panic! at the Disco  
> 6\. Like an anthem in my heart from From Now On from The Greatest Showman soundtrack because if you don't think that Kent Parson has listened to the climax of this song while flat-out sprinting on a treadmill, you and I don't know the same Kent Parson


End file.
